The Stony Path (26 page)

‘No, I see you have to move away, Da.’ He stared at his father and Nathaniel stared back before he bent and lifted the trunk, refusing Luke’s offer of help as he lugged it out of the room and down into the kitchen, where Eva was still sitting in the chair, Arnold standing alongside her.

Whether they had been conversing Luke didn’t know, but when Nathaniel held out his hand to Arnold and his elder son refused to take it, his father’s body remained absolutely still for a moment before his head turned to glance at his wife. Eva stared back at him, her eyes full of deep loathing, but again no one spoke.

Luke followed his father out of the house and into the street, where they stood for a moment in the icy drizzle that carried the odd snowflake in its midst. ‘You got far to go, Da?’

‘Carley Road, lad.’ And now Luke felt his father’s arms about him for the first time that he could remember since he had been a very young child, and Nathaniel’s voice was thick as he said, ‘Look after yourself an’ our Arnold. He’s not like you, Luke. He’ll get into trouble, he’s too easily led.’

The embrace only lasted a matter of seconds, but although every pore of Luke’s body was straining to return it, he remained like stone, his hands at his sides and his limbs stiff. And then he was watching his father walk down the street, his small body bent with the weight of the trunk, and he was glad of the sleet wetting his face because it hid his hot tears.
I
love you,
Da.
As Nathaniel neared the corner his pace quickened, and Luke could feel the sense of release that was filling the other man’s soul. Through blurred eyes he saw him turn and raise his hand, and he lifted his own in response, and there was a long moment when they just looked at each other through the mist of sleet and rain. Then Nathaniel turned again and walked on, and he was gone.

Chapter Eleven

Stone Farm was as different from the one Polly had been born on as chalk to cheese, and the full realisation of this had been sweeping over her in waves of increasing amazement ever since the horse and trap had turned off the lane and into the long stony track bordered by her uncle’s fields on both sides.

Although the boundary of her grandfather’s farm joined that of Frederick Weatherburn’s, the divide was in the nature of a high dry-stone wall beyond which rose a steep and sudden incline – whether natural or man-made Polly had never ventured to ask. As bairns she and Ruth had climbed the hillock to see beyond, but the acres of grazing cattle and sheep had deterred the two girls from exploring further.

Now, as the horse and trap bowled along, Polly reflected that her uncle’s farm could swallow her grandfather’s paltry forty acres whole, and morever, there was an air of prosperity abounding that was in stark contrast to the desperation at home.

‘There we are.’ She came out of her musing to see her uncle pointing to a large thatched house in the distance, which looked to be mainly three-storey except for what appeared to be an addition to the original house which was a third of its size and two storeys high. The size of the dwelling place brought Polly’s mouth open for a moment. ‘You can’t remember anything of Stone Farm, can you?’ Her uncle was speaking directly to Polly, leaning slightly forward in order to look round her grandmother, who was sitting next to him on the hard wooden seat, and when Polly shook her head he continued, ‘Your mother was always very happy here, from the day my father brought her and her own mother to stay. I was eight years old at the time, so I remember it well.’

‘You’ve always bin kindness itself to Hilda, Frederick.’ Her granny’s voice was loud and she nodded as she spoke. ‘Especially considerin’ she’s no relation of yours, not in the blood sense.’

‘I’ve always prided myself on being a man who takes his responsibilities seriously, Alice.’

‘Aye, there’s not a soul as could say different.’

There was something in the exchange, normal though it was, that caused Polly to glance sharply at her grandmother, but the old woman was looking directly ahead, and although she must have been aware of her granddaughter’s eyes, she made no effort to meet them.

As they neared the farmhouse, Polly saw that the winding stone track they were following opened up into a large cobbled yard, but unlike the one at home, this did not lead directly to the house. Instead the yard was bordered by a small stone wall with a wooden gate set in it on the far side, beyond which – and directly in front of the farmhouse – stretched an area of regimented flowerbeds some twenty yards long. As though he had been waiting for them, a figure materialised from the barn to the left of the muck-free farmyard and, as the horse and cart drew to a halt, took the reins from Frederick and stood at the horse’s head.

‘Thank you, Croft.’

Frederick did not look at the man as he spoke and his voice was very much that of master to man, and again Polly found herself glancing at her grandmother after they had alighted – with Frederick’s help – from the trap.

‘Come along, you must be in need of a warm drink.’ As her uncle made to usher her in front of her grandmother, something in Polly rebelled. He was making her feel uneasy – odd somehow – and the need to assert herself was strong. She half turned, taking her granny’s arm as she said somewhat pointedly, ‘Be careful you don’t slip, Gran. These cobbles are like glass with the rain.’

‘I’m all right, lass. You go ahead.’

‘No, we’ll go together.’

Frederick made no comment to this, but hastily opened the little gate in the wall, standing aside as the two women passed through into the garden beyond.

As they reached the front door it was opened from the inside and Betsy stood in the doorway, her round eyes commiserating as she glanced at Polly’s white face. ‘Everything’s ready, master, an’ I’ve lit the fire in the sittin’ room,’ she said hastily. ‘Shall I bring a tray of tea through while Mrs Farrow an’ the miss warm up a bit?’

‘Splendid.’ Frederick’s voice was hearty, and once they were all standing in the wide hall after wiping their feet on the thick rope mat on the threshold, he said, ‘I’m glad you’re seeing Stone Farm, Polly, although of course I wish it were in happier circumstances,’ before opening a door to his left.

The sitting room was large, very large, and for a moment Polly just glanced about her. The furniture was dark and old, but nice old, not like at her grandfather’s farm, and the two sofas and three chairs were covered in a chintz fabric, the red of which was reflected in the drapes at the two windows. A big rug lay in the middle of the wooden floor, with another smaller one set in front of the fire, which was piled high with burning logs and coal, and it was this which drew her gaze.

The range at home was kept burning day and night, even in the summer, providing as it did their means of cooking and heating water, but this fire was serving no useful purpose except to provide warmth. And coal burned away so much faster when mixed with logs, everyone knew that. It was the fire in the sitting room – more than anything else she saw and experienced over the next two hours at the farm – that emphasised to Polly the difference between the Uncle Frederick she had always known and this new individual who was the lord and master of his own little world.

After a cup of tea in the sitting room, Betsy called them through to the stone-flagged dining room. This room was half the size of the sitting room and again warmed by a substantial fire, but although the light repast the housekeeper had prepared was tasty, Polly found she could eat very little. She had been bracing herself for the ordeal of the funeral service for days, but nevertheless, the sight of the coffin being lowered into the ground had upset her profoundly, and the confrontation with Arnold afterwards had left a nasty taste in her mouth. But that wasn’t all of it. Her uncle’s attitude was unsettling her, but quite why she felt such a strong sense of unease, she wasn’t sure.

The sense of disquiet continued all through the brief tour of the farmhouse after lunch, and although her grandmother oohed and ahhed over everything, Polly was mostly silent, although she acknowledged the house was a fine one.

The old part of it dated back to 1725 and consisted of the sitting room, the kitchen and the dairy on the ground floor, above which were three good-size bedrooms, with a large attic room on the top storey which was Betsy’s living space plus storage. The new part of the farmhouse had been built by Frederick’s grandfather over a hundred years later; the lower floor consisting of the dining room and Frederick’s study and office, above which the space had been divided into one large master bedroom and a small dressing room leading to a tiny night water closet, all accessed by the original staircase.

‘Well, what do you think?’ They had just entered the sitting room once more, and again Frederick’s voice was hearty as he addressed Polly. ‘Was it what you were expecting?’

‘Expecting?’

‘Stone Farm, the house.’ He made an expansive gesture with his hands, flinging his arms wide.

Did he really think she cared about his fine house on this day of all days? ‘It’s a beautiful house, Uncle Frederick.’

‘Oh, I think it’s high time we dropped the “uncle”.’ Frederick turned to include Alice in his glance. ‘What do you say, Alice? Our little lass is a full-grown woman now, and as you so rightly pointed out earlier, I’m no relation to her at all. “Uncle” seems out of place these days, wouldn’t you say?’

There was a sick feeling growing in Polly’s stomach, but it was accompanied by a voice that was saying, You’re imagining it, you must be. He doesn’t mean what you think he means, not Uncle Frederick. He was there when Michael asked for you in marriage. He knows you love him. ‘I ... I wouldn’t feel right calling you anything else but Uncle,’ Polly said quietly, forcing her voice into a calmness she was far from feeling.

‘Nonsense.’ This time the tone wasn’t so much hearty as cavalier, and when Frederick’s glance again swept over her grandmother, Polly’s eyes followed it, but Alice was staring down at her hands, the thumbs of which were working one over the other. ‘I’ve always considered us to be the greatest of friends, Polly, and it would please me if you called me Frederick, all right?’ He smiled at her from his stance in front of the fire, his hands now holding the back of his long, beautifully cut black jacket away from his backside as he swayed slightly from side to side. ‘Now I’m sure that isn’t too much to ask, is it?’

Polly’s back stiffened. He couldn’t be suggesting what she was thinking, but that look on his face ... She lifted her chin slightly, taking a long pull of air through her nostrils before she said, very coolly and without smiling, ‘Of course not.’

‘There we are then, it’s all settled. Frederick it is from now on.’

A knock at the sitting room door signalled Betsy’s entrance with their outdoor clothes, and Polly had never been so glad to see someone in all her life. She needed to get away from this place – or more particularly from the man standing looking at her so intently – and she was dreading the journey home in the horse and trap.

As it happened, the ride was uneventful, and Frederick confined his conversation to Alice, who was again sitting next to him. He refused Alice’s offer of a cup of tea when they reached the farm, his manner so normal as he said goodbye that Polly told herself she had completely misunderstood a perfectly innocent conversation, which had just been friendly and nothing else. Anything else was too absurd, too preposterous for words. Of course it was. She stood for a moment after her grandmother had entered the house, staring after the horse and trap, and in her mind’s eye she pictured her uncle’s –
Frederick’s –
round, red-cheeked face and bright black beady eyes, his big rotund body and large hands, the backs of which were liberally covered in thick brown hair. He was as old as her father, slightly older in fact, so she understood. Of course she had been mistaken ...

That had gone well in the circumstances. Frederick Weatherburn settled his fleshy backside more comfortably on the wooden seat and clicked his tongue to the horse as he jerked on the reins, the animal immediately responding by falling into a steady trot. Yes, it had gone very well, all things considered. If nothing else, she had been forced to recognise that he was a man of substance, someone not to be sneezed at. Of course, it was early days yet. He narrowed his eyes on the back of the horse, a handsome chestnut he had bought in the summer at Durham horse fair. As far as Polly was concerned, at least; for himself, he had been thinking about marriage to Hilda’s elder daughter for some two or three years and educating her for that purpose.

Polly was intelligent and amusing, and she had all but run that household since old Walter had had his first bad turn – and not just the household. Henry had never had any farming skills.

Yes, Polly would make an excellent wife. She was young and robust and would produce strong, healthy heirs, which was important. He was forty-one years old; it was high time he got on with the business of procreating. Not that he had much heart for it, if the truth be told. He had never been able to understand this primeval urge regarding the act of copulation that most men seemed to feel. He preferred an enjoyable evening wining and dining at the Gentlemen’s Club on the corner of Fawcett Street any day, or a brisk gallop over his land on his favourite filly.

But it was time to take a wife, and Polly fitted the bill for one reason above any other: she was his means of securing Walter’s farm without laying out another penny. He had encouraged Walter and Henry to fall more and more heavily into debt to him over the last years, and he didn’t apologise for the fact. No, by gum he didn’t. And things couldn’t have worked out better. The farm was crippled, they all knew it, but if he played his cards right he could acquire that forty acres – along with a wife – as well as being seen to fulfil his Christian duty by taking in his new wife’s family and giving them a roof over their heads.