White Water (5 page)

Maria’s eyes were large in the flickering light. ‘I hope so,’ she said earnestly. ‘I truly hope so.’

*

Allan had ridden fast and furious, across Dartmoor. Oblivious of his destination, he had ridden due east over the sprawling moorland unaware of the darkening sky that heralded nightfall. He rode without stopping, spurring his horse unmercifully so that it raced desperately, heart labouring under the unexpected effort, nostrils flared, specks of froth whipped from its mouth by the wind. Allan rode with his eyes closed against the pain, careless of his own safety, unconsciously challenging death to take him also, so that he could be once more with his beloved Harriet. At last the rumble of passing cartwheels opened his eyes and he found himself on the far side of the moor, on the furthermost outskirts of Tavistock. With an oath, he turned his exhausted horse and headed north-east so that he moved across moorland once more. He longed to ride forever until he fell, but it was in fact the horse that stumbled, throwing him head first to the ground.

He was lucky enough to land in soft marshy ground which broke his fall. For a moment he lay where he was, his anguish welling up afresh but then with a deep, trembling sigh he scrambled to a kneeling position and stared into the darkness. His horse was grazing nearby. He could hear the teeth closing and the small sound of grass parting from its roots. The half moon was rising and there were no clouds.

‘Harriet!’ he whispered. ‘Harriet … Harriet.’

He longed to see her as she had been, when he lay with her, sweet and loving under his caresses, an excited smile fighting her face, her breath coming in soft gasps. Instead he saw her wild eyed and bloodied. He groaned aloud and threw himself face downward on the cool turf and there he lay all night, unmoving, sleepless, while the moon rose over him and the night creatures watched him cautiously, skirting the long still form, startled by the blond hair which shone silver in the moonlight.

His stillness belied the turmoil within him, as grief and shock gave way to a deep misery that was physical — a misery that weighed on him like earth upon a coffin, pressing him down into the soil beneath him, while the darkness hid him from the world. He was abandoned, solitary, cut off from his fellow men, unable to see or hear, a forgotten object. He was buried alive in the dark recesses of his mind. He was at one with his sweet wife. He prayed for oblivion and wanted the all embracing darkness to go on forever.

But at last the sun rose, touching the cold sky with its rosy light and warming the earth with the promise of a new day. The sounds of night vanished with the dawn and reluctantly Allan Kendal opened his eyes and forced himself to face the rest of his life.

His body was cramped and his clothes clung damply to him. His mind was numb, all rage, fear and pain had merged into unreality. His horse was gone but he stood up and stamped his feet and swung his arms, and felt the stiffness leaving him. Breathing deeply of the cold air, he turned to face the sunshine, imagining that it warmed his face. Then he turned eastward and set off for home. After an hour’s walk he came upon his horse, which came willingly when he whistled. So he rode slowly back and the hours passed at a walking pace until the spire of Ashburton church gave him his exact whereabouts. On a sudden impulse he turned away from Heron and headed into the town, and just before five had tied his horse to a hitching post and was knocking at the door of Maggie’s bakery.

She came grumbling to the door, a shawl thrown round her shoulders, her figure hidden in a shapeless nightgown. Her protest died on her lips as she recognized him.

‘Sweet heaven, ’tis Master Allan — and in such a state! Come in at once and let me take a proper look.’

She pulled him inside and closed the door and for a few seconds her eyes took in his haunted expression and the crumpled state of his clothes. Hands on hips, she surveyed him, tutting softly to herself, then she flung her arms round him and hugged him fiercely.

‘Whatever ails you ’tis not the time to speak of it yet,’ she said shrewdly. ‘When a young man turns up on my doorstep at this ungodly hour, there’s only one thing to do and that’s feed him. So you sit yourself down, young Allan, and nurse the fire along for I’ve only just lit it, and I’ll get a bite of breakfast and a drop of hot spiced wine. That’ll warm the cockles of your heart — mine, too — and we’ll eat and drink and life’ll be worth living again. That’s right, love, throw on a few more sticks. They’re in the basket behind you. Make a nice blaze. Now let me see, there’s a couple of veal pasties in the larder and a bit of cold capon. Tasty that was, though I say it myself. Cooked it slow with a few sprigs of rosemary and the flesh fell off the bones. We’ll finish that — and there’s a bit of curd cheese, or did I finish that off? My memory these days! I’m getting old, no point in pretending.’

Allan said, ‘You’ll never be old, Maggie,’ and she smiled to herself to see that he was ‘coming round’. Chattering on, she gave him no time to think his own thoughts and suddenly she laughed. He turned from the fire to see her regarding him cheerfully.

‘You look just like your father, kneeling there,’ she told him. ‘The image of Simon. He was a grand lad, your father. A grand lad — and you’re like him. No two ways about it. Oh dear, it’s smoking a bit. Wood’s damp I expect. The bellows are behind you, love. Give it a bit of a blow. Show it who’s master.’

And she bustled about the small homely kitchen, resisting the urge to find out what had brought him to her door.

‘We’ll have a picnic,’ she told him, and capon, cheese and pasties were set down beside the fire which suddenly flared into life and gave out a comforting warmth. Glancing at Allan, she was pleased to see the colour creep back into his face and a little of the pain fade from his eyes. ‘There now — ’ she said, setting down two bowls of hot wine. ‘A breakfast fit for a king so help yourself and don’t wait to be asked. Manners are not my strong point, as you well know, so let’s fill our bellies and talk after.’

Allan was surprised to find that he could eat the simple food which tasted better than any he could remember. The hot wine warmed him, sending a pleasant glow through his cold body, and gradually he began to relax and the horror of the previous night receded, routed from his mind by Maggie’s determined cheerfulness and the warmth of her affection for him.

Slowly he began to talk and the telling of Harriet’s death, though anguished, was bearable and the pain less than he had anticipated. Maggie nodded from time to time and the sympathy was plain in her eyes, but she continued to press food and drink upon him and her occasional comments were made in a matter-of-fact way. She let him talk on until the horror and anger died in him and only the grief remained.

‘You had a sweet, loving wife,’ she told him. ‘Most men are never so fortunate. You’ve known true happiness. Many men would envy you for that. Be thankful for such mercies and when you lose them, why, treasure the memories. You know what they say — better to have loved and lost — ’ He nodded. ‘Put a few more sticks on, love, and that bit of a log. I must chop some more later. Ah, that’s better. I love to see the sparks rise, don’t you? Sad how often we lose the ones we love, but that’s the way of the world and ’tis no use railing against God’s will. We must take our joys when they’re offered and pay for them when the reckoning’s due. Life goes on. Do they know where you are — at Heron, I mean?’

He shook his head and a flash of panic showed in his face.

‘Not that there’s any hurry,’ she said quickly. ‘They’ll no doubt send Matt after you and that’ll keep him out of harm’s way for an hour or two. You bide here a while. I don’t often have the pleasure of your company and if mistress Harriet could look down and see us here, all cosy, she’d be well pleased. Traipsing over the moor all night! I don’t know.’ And she shook her head and a smile lit up her plump, homely face.

Allan looked at her curiously. ‘You loved my father, they say. Is that true?’

‘Oh, it’s true enough. Great times we had and a lot of fun. We often sat here, just like this. That was before he knew he was a Kendal. Simon Betts, he was, when I first knew him. Simon Betts, the baker’s lad.’

She laughed and Allan smiled with her. ‘Head over heels in love I was and he fancied me. Oh, you needn’t grin like that. I was pretty then with brown curls and — ’ She stopped and sighed, fingering her greying hair.

‘You’re still bonny,’ he told her. ‘Go on with the story. I’ve never heard it all told.’

Maggie laughed. ‘Not much more to tell, really,’ she said. ‘I was crazy for him, but one day he met your aunt Melissa and that was the end of my romance.’

‘Aunt Melissa? But — ’

‘Ah,
we
know they’re related but you see they didn’t. Not then. No one knew. Being a bastard, he’d been given to a family called Betts. Oh, he was a fine lad, your pa. I was so jealous. I knew there was someone else, you see. I spied on him to find out who it was. Followed him one evening and saw them together. Then I went to his father and told him.’

‘Maggie!’

‘I know, I know. ’Twas a spiteful trick, but I was so in love with him and it broke my heart. Still, it was as well I did for they was brother and sister and only the father knew it. Dear oh Lord, that stirred up a hornet’s nest, I can tell you. He was sent packing and I never saw him again. Not until he was acknowledged, that is. Once his brothers were both dead, he was the only heir and Luke Kendal brought him into Heron.’

‘And Aunt Melissa later married Thomas?’

‘Aye — and very happy they’ve been, bless them. She’s forgiven me. We’re friends. Your father wed Hannah and they were very happy.’

‘And poor old Maggie — ’

She laughed ruefully. ‘Life’s funny,’ she said simply. ‘Simon loved Melissa and he grew to love Hannah, but ’twas me that was with him the night he died. I’ll always be thankful for that.’

Allan nodded. He had heard the story from the servants. ‘You met up on the battlefield outside London,’ he said.

‘Aye. That Wyatt and his ill-fated rebellion! Next day I found Simon dead of his wounds and sat with him until they came for his body.’

‘And then — ’ he prompted, to turn her thoughts away from sad memories.

‘Then? Oh, you know it. Hugo was widowed and in time he wed Hannah. They had young Beatrice, bless her.’ She smiled. ‘And all the time Maria was pining for Hugo but she had a long wait. She despaired, I reckon. Took herself off to that nunnery, poor soul. But then the Lord saw fit to take Hannah when she gave birth to Master Martin. Oh, a real scamp, he was … So then there were three motherless Kendal children.’

‘Until Hugo and Maria wed.’

‘Aye and a real love match that was. Then they had Master Piers and little Lorna.’ She shrugged suddenly ‘And what do
I
do during all these excitements? Why, I make pies and puddings and apple dumplings — ’

‘The
best
pies and puddings,’ he corrected her cheerfully, but she shook her head and sighed.

Allan was silent, then he put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Poor Maggie,’ he said softly.

‘Aye. Poor Maggie. Poor Allan. We all have our griefs and we all live through them to happier times.’ She sighed deeply, then with an effort, shook off the melancholy. ‘Now then, young Allan. That’s enough talking for one day. “Poor Maggie” has got work to do. Pastry to roll and pies to bake and here I am sitting over the fire gossiping.’

‘I’ll help you, Maggie,’ he offered but she shook her head.

‘I’d love to take you up on it, but your place is at Heron. Maria will need you. She must be at her wits’ end.’

‘Just for an hour, then, Maggie,’ he pleaded. ‘Let me help you for an hour and then I’ll go home.’

She hesitated. ‘A Kendal rolling pastry and chopping meat?’

He smiled. ‘’Twas good enough for my father.’

‘It was indeed,’ she said. ‘Right then, you shall help me for an hour. Stir your stumps, young Allan, and we’ll make a start.’

And so it was that when Melissa arrived with her message she found Simon’s son up to his elbows in flour and a wink from Maggie told her that the worst was over.

*

They laid Harriet to rest two days later in the family grave and the sun shone thinly through the autumn mist lending a mystical quality to the proceedings. Allan watched impassively as the coffin was lowered into the ground and he was first to toss in the rosemary twig. His lips moved, then, in a whispered farewell. His sorrow was in his eyes for all to see but his control was greater than anyone expected. The Minister’s voice rose and fell with the familiar words and brought home to the mourners the frailty of life and promised them riches in heaven. He spoke movingly of Harriet’s short life and sympathized with the bereaved. Then he commended her soul to God and the bell began to toll. As the mournful sound echoed in the still air, Allan’s eyes lifted for a moment from his wife’s grave and sought out Maggie’s. Wordlessly, he expressed his gratitude and she acknowledged it with a brief nod of her head. Then, as tradition demanded, he took up the spade, drove it into the loose earth piled beside the grave and scattered it over his wife’s coffin.

CHAPTER THREE

The river which flowed past Heron continued its way through field and moorland and then wound round the bottom of a small wooded hill. Here, half overgrown by bushes, was Nathaniel Gully’s home — a small building, little more than a hovel. It had a hole in one wall which served as a window and a doorway covered by a well-worn hide. The smoke from his fire in winter found its way out through chinks in the turf roof. In summer he cooked outside. Three chickens and a goat shared this humble dwelling and the smell was considerable.

Lorna wrinkled her nose in disgust and said, ‘Pooh!’ Piers nudged her with his elbow but it was too late. ‘Your house smells,’ she told Nat.

Looking up from his netting, he laughed in mock dismay. ‘Don’t you like it, ma’am?’

‘She does,’ said Piers.

‘I don’t,’ said Lorna. ‘It smells horrid.’

Piers, embarrassed by his sister’s honesty, averted his eyes, and wished he had come alone on the long promised visit. He snapped his fingers at Brin and the little terrier heaved himself out of his corner and trotted over eagerly to be patted. Nat’s nimble fingers twisted the hook in and out of the mesh and tugged a new length of string free of the ball.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘So you don’t like my house? Not as grand as Heron, is it, but it suits me. I’ve a roof over me head to keep out the rain and four walls to keep out the wind.’ ‘But there’s only one room,’ said Lorna.

She and her brother sat side by side on the log that served as a seat. Nat sat on the only stool, making a new rabbit net.

‘One’s all I need.’

‘But where’s your mama and papa?’ she insisted.

‘Dead and gone,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘And my sisters are wed and gone. That just leaves me.’

‘And Brin,’ said Piers, ‘and the goat and the chickens.’

‘Do they lay eggs?’ asked Lorna.

‘Well,’ said Nat, ‘they don’t make honey, that’s for sure!’

She looked at him suspiciously but he was intent on his work once more.

‘To tell you the truth we’re a funny lot,’ he told her, ‘’tis the goat that lays the eggs and the chickens give milk.’

She stared at him wide-eyed while Piers tried hard to keep his face straight. After a moment she said cautiously, ‘What does the dog do?’ and Nat and Piers burst out laughing.

‘He’s teasing you,’ cried Piers. ‘Oh, you should see your face! Serves you right for being impertinent.’

She sprang to her feet, squealing indignantly and the log tilted, throwing Piers off-balance. He cried out and the dog, sensing a game, rushed between them barking excitedly. Nat watched with amusement as the two children wrestled and then Lorna tripped backwards over the log and fell sprawling on the earth floor.

‘That’s the way,’ said Nat. ‘Get yourself all muddy and your ma will want to know where you’ve been.’

They were immediately sobered. Piers helped his sister to her feet and made a half-hearted attempt to brush down her gown. Without another word they sat themselves down once more on the log. Lorna put her hands in her lap and her feet neatly together.

‘I only said it smells because it does,’ she muttered and Piers, groaning, put his hands over his ears. Seeing that Nat appeared quite unconcerned, he took them down again.

‘Everyone is dead,’ said Piers. ‘Harriet is dead and Beth’s sister is dead and old Ruth is nearly dead.’

‘Old Ruth?’

He nodded. ‘Old Ruth at Romney House. She’s had a fit and can’t walk. Mama is gone with Matt to visit her.’

‘Your poor mama,’ said Nat. ‘Always nursing sick folk. She’ll be worn to a frazzle. Isn’t there any good news? A little bird told me — ’

Lorna dropped her hands. ‘Oh yes, the baby! Beatrice’s baby! ’Tis a little girl born on the first day of November. Emily Mary Quarterman. And now I’m an aunt and Piers is an uncle.’ She giggled, putting her two hands to her face.

‘An aunt and an uncle,’ said Nat. ‘Well, I never did. I shall have to mind my manners with such important folks around.’

At that moment the goat, ambling around the room, decided to investigate the back of Lorna’s neck and gave her a little nudge. She leapt off the log with a scream.

‘Your goat!’ she cried. ‘He tried to bite me.’

‘’Tis a nanny,’ said Nat, ‘and she’s friendly enough. But shoo her outside … There now, I’ve finished the net. That’ll do me very well tonight when I go rabbiting — but ’tis time you were off home. Your folks will be looking for you before long.’

‘Can’t we watch you rabbiting?’ asked Piers. ‘You did promise.’

‘Ah, so I did. And so you shall, but not today. We’ll have to ask your folks, all right and proper. Next week, mayhap.’

Reluctantly the two children left the little hut. Nat walked back with them along the river until they came to the stepping stones that led into the garden at Heron. Nat watched them safely to the other side, waved a farewell and whistled for Brin who had followed them over. Then he set off for home, still chuckling. Nat Gully was very fond of the two youngest Kendals.

*

Maria sat upstairs with Ruth in her bed chamber. Matt sat in the large kitchen with Jem and reminisced about ‘the old days’ when Maria had been betrothed to Ruth’s brother and Romney House had been their home. Outside, a November mist hung over the river and encroached over the marshes. There was much hilarity, and upstairs Maria smiled to herself. Beside her the old woman dozed fitfully and Felicity sat by the window sewing. Maria was trying to decide what should be done for the best. The old woman was very frail and her right side was paralysed, but the physician thought she might linger on indefinitely. Alternatively, she might shortly have another ‘fit’ and die. He could not predict what would happen. Maria studied the old woman compassionately. The face was wizened and the mottled skin stretched tautly over the bones. Her sparse hair was tucked under her bonnet and the right eye oozed moisture.

And she cannot see either, thought Maria, pitying her the meagre existence. And yet still the old woman clung to life, talking interminably. But then speech was all she had left and no one could begrudge her that. Maria sighed heavily. What was to be done with her? It was a burden for Felicity to care for her alone. Maria had offered to take her back to Heron, but Ruth had refused outright. She had grown quite vehement on the subject and Maria, fearful for her health, had withdrawn the offer. Felicity had suggested hopefully that Maria might return to Romney House until Ruth’s death, but that was out of the question. She had a husband and family and her first duty was to them. No, Ruth must remain at Romney House and somehow provision must be made for her proper wellbeing. She would talk to Felicity again. Not an easy task, for the girl was so shy. She glanced at her, head bent over the white linen, and saw her pause and stroke the blue silk of the gown. She was almost fourteen but so immature. Beatrice had been more confident at twelve years old!

With another glance at Ruth, Maria stood up and, taking the stool with her, crossed the room and sat beside Felicity who glanced up, a look of trepidation on her young face.

‘Tell me,’ she began gently, ‘when did the cook leave?’

‘Nigh on five weeks ago.’

‘But why did you not write to me of it?’

‘I did, ma’am, but later I learned that the bearer of the letter had met with an accident along the way.’

‘I see. But who has cooked since then?’

‘I have, ma’am. We have eaten sparingly, I swear it.’

‘I don’t doubt it for a moment but — ’ Maria was momentarily lost for words. ‘’Tis such a burden for you, to care for Ruth and cook, also. I had no idea.’

‘I’m happy to do it, ma’am.’

‘Where did she go — and why? She had no right to leave you.’

Felicity twisted her fingers nervously in her lap, the sewing neglected. ‘She said she had a better offer but — ’ She hesitated.

‘Well? What is it, child? Tell me.’

‘I don’t — you won’t tell him, ma’am? Oh, promise you won’t tell him?’

‘Tell who? Felicity, what are you talking about?’

Maria looked at her, bewildered. Felicity lowered her head. ‘I told you in the letter, ma’am,’ she mumbled. ‘Told me what?’

‘‘Twas the looker, ma’am. She was afeared of him.’ Maria looked at her, baffled. ‘The looker?’

‘Aye, ma’am — him as looks after the sheep.’

Maria’s bewilderment grew. ‘Do you mean Mark Wynne, the shepherd?’

‘We call them lookers on the marsh, ma’am. Aye, ’tis him. He’s a bad man. We were all afeared of him — except Jem. Oh ma’am … ’

She stopped abruptly as though she had said too much already. Slowly, with infinite patience, Maria persuaded her to tell the whole story. It seemed that Mark Wynne had taken to spending more and more time at Romney House and less and less time with the sheep. His quarters were now above the old stable, since his cottage had fallen into disrepair, and he would frequently retire to bed with a flagon or two of wine and later get up again and force his way into the kitchen. His drunkenness disgusted the women, but as long as Jem was present there would be no further problems. Jem, however, was courting the daughter of a neighbouring farmer and was frequently out in the evening. On these occasions, Wynne’s behaviour was bullying and his language obscene.

‘Bullying?’ said Maria, horrified. ‘In what way?’

Felicity was obviously struggling with her emotions and found it difficult to speak of the incidents without distress.

Maria took her hand in her own. ‘You must tell me,’ she said. ‘I must know it all or how can I help you?’

‘‘Twas all in the letter,’ said Felicity.

‘But the letter didn’t reach me! Tell me, how did he bully you?’

‘And you won’t tell him ’twas I that told you?’

‘If what you say is true I shall get rid of him, Felicity. You have nothing to fear.’

‘He said he was without — without a woman of his own.’

‘But he has a wife and family. I have spoken with them.’

‘His wife died, ma’am, a year since — maybe more — and Judy, his daughter, left him. She ran away in the summer. They quarrelled and some say he beat her because she — she would not — be his woman.’ She hid her face in her hands as her voice dropped to a whisper.

Maria sighed heavily. ‘Go on.’

‘He said at first that neither of us would serve him.’ She swallowed at the memory and her face paled. ‘He said cook was too old and I was too young but he’d — ’

‘Sweet heaven! I shall have him flogged!’ Maria’s face flushed with anger. ‘If he has laid a finger on either of you … ’

‘Indeed no, he hasn’t, ma’am, though lately he said he would have me, whether I would or no. Oh, ma’am, he says he means to wed me. I cannot bear it!’

She burst into tears and flung herself on to her knees. Maria held her close, comforting the trembling girl, her thoughts chaotic. Remorse filled her at the thought of them in such sad circumstances and she blamed herself bitterly for not taking a more positive interest in the little household Harold had left her. Forgive me, she prayed silently. I swear I will mend matters.

‘Mark Wynne will never wed you,’ she told the girl. ‘You have my word on it. So dry your tears, wash your face and be of good heart. I shall deal with Wynne in the morning. But for tonight I must think carefully on what must be done.’

Maria ate her supper that evening in a preoccupied silence and after the meal walked in the grounds with only the dogs for company. She wished fervently that Hugo was with her. He would advise her. Now she had to face the problem alone. It all stemmed from lack of money. Harold’s small fortune had ebbed away and the only income was from the sheep. Of late even this had dwindled, but she had trusted Wynne, who had been with the family for as long as she had known them. Each year he had produced a plausible reason for the poor return — a drought, disease, a fall in the demand for wool. Had he been keeping back some of the profits? Had it been spent on loose living? Or were the poor returns genuine — a result of his negligence? There was probably no way of knowing. She had only herself to blame if he had cheated her. Heron had absorbed all her energies and Romney House had come a poor second. But reproaches were useless, she told herself firmly. The problems must be solved and it seemed drastic measures would be required.

A new cook was the smallest of her worries. She would make enquiries. Ruth and Harold had several friends who would, she felt sure, be pleased to recommend a likely replacement. She would start with James Moore, whose farmland adjoined Romney House on the west side. Wynne she would give a month’s money and dismiss him instantly. No — on reflection that would not be practicable. There would be no one responsible for the flock until she found a new shepherd. But would he work a month’s notice? More likely he would revenge himself by poisoning the sheep! No — he must not know until it was too late for him to do any harm. But how was that to be achieved? Frowning, she paced the narrow paths between the hedges and suddenly became aware of their overgrown state. At the fish pond she stopped, peering into the water, but it was too dark to see whether the fish were alive or dead. What had happened to the gardener? Did he collect his wages and do nothing to earn them? Who would notice? Ruth was blind and Felicity was little more than a child and she had more than enough to do within the house.