Abbeyford Remembered (9 page)

“Where is she?” Lloyd Foster demanded.

“How should I know?” Evan replied.

Foster's face showed none of its usual geniality. He grasped Evan's shirt collar and hauled him close. Though sturdy and strong, Evan was no match for the big Irishman. “Then you'd better be findin' her, me boy. A bargain's a bargain. I've no mind to lose that little girl, d'you hear me now?”

“She'll come back,” Evan said confidently.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because he's gone.”

“Young Trent?”

“Aye.”

“How can you be sure she hasn't gone with him?”

“Yesterday – after he rode off in such a tekin' – she was at home all day until just before I got home. Me wife said so.”

“So? She could still have gone to find him.”

Patiently, Evan said, “No, it was me went after Jamie Trent. In the afternoon he was at the workings talking to Luke, but I soon put a stop to that. I told him she was to marry you. That it'd be no good cousins marrying – enough bad blood on both sides to breed the devil himself!”

“What did he say?”

Evan laughed. “ He looked sick – sick and beaten!”

“But what was he saying to Luke, maybe he was arranging to meet her – through Luke, eh?”

“Nay. I asked Luke an' he said he'd only just come as I got there. Trent hadn't said nothing.”

“He could be lying. Lyin' to protect Carrie.”

Evan frowned. “Luke – lie to me? He wouldn't dare!”

Foster gave a grunt of disbelief. “ Frightened of you he may be, me boy, but he thinks a lot of his sister. Maybe more than his fear of you.”

Foster said no more but strode away leaving Evan frowning thoughtfully.

“Luke, come here.”

Luke Smithson glanced fearfully at his father. They were at the new workings of the Abbeyford embankment. He had put Luke in charge of the gangers on this section, but the sick, weak boy had no power to be authoritative over the men.

Luke slid down the bank and came towards Evan.

“You sure young Trent said naught to you?”

Two spots of colour appeared in the boy's cheeks and he coughed. “Nay,” he gasped, “I told you, didn't I? You came up just as he got off his horse. He'd no time to say aught …”

“You'd better not be lyin' to me, boy, or it'll be the worse for you. Now get back and shape these men up. You'll let 'em run riot over you, if you dunna.”

Thankfully Luke turned his back on his father and hurried away, feeling, as he did so, the rustle of paper in his pocket. The letter Jamie Trent had given him for Carrie. How long he could keep it from his pa, he didn't know. He just wished Carrie would come home so he could give it to her and be done with it!

Then all thoughts of Carrie and Jamie Trent and even of his father's wrath were swept from his mind as his gaze travelled up the hill above the embankment.

Ranged in a line some hundred yards away, silent, watchful and menacing stood thirty or more men armed with a variety of weapons – picks, shovels, staffs, crooks and knives. The navvies had seen them and had paused in their work, looking up at the strangers above them.

The farmworkers, Luke thought, and shuddered. They've come to try to stop us building the railway through their village. For a moment he closed his eyes and when he opened them the men had begun to move slowly forward down the incline towards the railway workings. The navvies, too, had, by common, silent consent formed themselves into a defensive line and they stood waiting, watching the approach of their adversaries. It was like two armies in a battle, Luke thought, and then the two lines met and clashed. Screams and cries and the sound of wood on wood and metal against metal filled the air and there was no more time for conscious thought!

Lloyd Foster sat on his horse at the top of the hill overlooking the quiet, peaceful village of Abbeyford.

“Where could she have gone, where could she be hidin' herself?” he murmured aloud, his gaze roaming the countryside, taking in the squat, straggly cottages, the grand mansion, Abbeyford Grange and the neglected Manor House, and the mounds of earth already beginning to form the embankment which would run right across the valley. Then his eyes came to rest on the abbey ruins to his right, rising gaunt and black against the grey October sky. He spurred his horse and galloped across the ridge towards the ruins, feeling the first spots of rain on his face from the low, threatening clouds above.

Carrie crouched down in the small, cell-like room in the ruins. She had been there since early morning. She was cold and hungry and so miserable. If only Jamie would come! She had ventured out once or twice to peer over the crumbling walls, hoping for sight of him. But the fields were empty, devoid even of workers. She dare not show herself in the open for fear someone might see her. So the little room, cold and inhospitable it seemed now – so different from the sanctuary it had been when she had lain in Jamie's arms – had become her hideout.

During the late afternoon the room became darker as rain clouds gathered. Carrie crouched against the wall, dozing fitfully, worn out with the drama of the past few hours.

As if in a dream she heard the horse's hoofbeats.

“Jamie, Jamie! He's come!” She dragged herself, still dazed, but hopeful now, to the doorway. The rain beat upon her face, arousing her to full wakefulness as she saw a man climbing over the low wall. She watched him jump down into the ruins and come towards her.

She stretched out her hands and made to run towards him. “Jamie! Oh, Jamie!”

“Oh, an' there you are, me darlin'. An' I was thinkin' I'd not set eyes on you again, me lovely.”

Carrie stopped and stared at the man walking towards her across the stone-strewn floor of the abbey ruins. Her arms fell limply to her sides.

Lloyd Foster! Not Jamie.

Lloyd's arms were strong about her and if she had not been so disappointed because it was he and not Jamie, she might have welcomed the support and warmth he offered.

“Go away,” she said weakly.

“Aw, now an' you don't mean that, to be sure.”

Exhausted, scarcely able to think rationally, Carrie found herself leaning against him. This last disappointment had swept away the last reserve of her strength and left her helpless and without hope.

“Come on, me darlin'.” He lifted her and carried her to his horse. “I'll not let anyone be hurtin' you ever again, do you hear dat now?”

She heard his words, soft, comforting words, but did not comprehend them. She just knew she was unable to resist him any longer. She could no longer stop him taking her home. She had no will, no strength left.

He sat her on his horse and mounted behind her. He took off his jacket and wrapped it round her and held her close, warming her cold, aching limbs. The rain soaked his fine waistcoat and shirt, but Lloyd Foster smiled. He had found her! She had not gone away with young Trent. He had found her in time. But his smile was tinged with sadness, for he knew that it was mere chance that she had not gone away with her lover, for it had been Jamie Trent she had been waiting for in the ruins. But now he had her again, Lloyd Foster did not intend to lose her this time.

As they rode down the hill towards the stream, he saw suddenly the line of men – farm labourers – advancing with slow and deliberate steps towards the workings of the embankment. Foster saw the makeshift weapons they carried and, afraid of their intention, he spurred his horse forward. The sudden movement stirred Carrie and she clung to him. “What is it?”

“I t'ink dere's trouble …”

He saw his navvies become aware of the advancing foe, saw them pick up their working tools and automatically form themselves into a line facing their attackers.

Carrie, now fully aroused, gasped in horror. As the two lines of men met, staves waved in the air, knife blades flashed and the cries of pain and triumph wafted to their ears.

Lloyd Foster leapt from his horse. “ Stay here, me darlin' out of harm's way.” Carrie narrowed her eyes, trying to see …

“
Luke
!” A horrified shriek escaped her lips. “ Oh, look!”

Lloyd Foster ran towards the fight whilst Carrie watched with terrified eyes. She saw a huge fellow lunge towards her brother, saw him raise his crook and deal Luke a vicious blow, saw him fall to the ground, the man raising his weapon yet again. Then Foster reached him, grasped him by the collar and twisted him round. His huge fist smashed into the man's face, felling him at once. Then he picked Luke up in his arms and moved away from the fighting. Carrie scrambled from the horse and ran towards them. “Oh, Luke,
Luke
!”

But the young man was unconscious.

“We'll get him home.”

“What – about the rest?”

Lloyd shrugged. “ Dey'll have to fight it out, won't they now? And may the best men win!” He grinned at her, confident that victory would be with his navvies.

As Lloyd Foster lifted Luke gently from the horse outside the shack, Evan Smithson opened the door.

“There's a fight going on in Abbeyford. The farm labourers have attacked the navvies,” Foster said curtly to him. “ You should be there.”

“Luke's in charge there …” Evan began, then seeing the still form in Lloyd's strong arms, he gave a click of annoyance. “Can't he do anything? Oh,” he added catching sight of Carrie, “ you're back, are you?”

Carrie's answer was to push past him into the shack. Holding the door open she beckoned Lloyd to carry Luke inside and lay him down on the rough shakedown behind the ragged curtain.

“I'll be getting back to the trouble. You comin'?” he demanded of Evan.

“In a moment,” Evan was looking down at his son thoughtfully. “You,” he said to Carrie, pushing her roughly, “get some water. I'll be with you in a minute.” It was a dismissal of both Carrie and Foster. Evan wanted them both out of the way.

Alone with his son, Evan knelt down by his side and felt amongst the boy's clothing. Something rustled, and Evan drew out a crumpled piece of paper.

As Carrie returned with a bowl of water and rags to bind Luke's head, she saw her father rising from a crouching position beside Luke, his hand inside his own coat pocket. As he stood and turned to leave, she saw the gleam of triumph in his eyes.

“He's all yours now – but I doubt you'll be able to do aught with him!” His tone was unemotional, as one might speak of an injured animal, not a human being, not his own son!

Evan brushed past her and was gone. Carrie stood a moment, wondering at his strange actions, then, as a low moan came from Luke's lips, all other thoughts were driven from her mind save the care of her brother. She knelt and began to bathe his wounds.

On the other side of the curtain, seated at the table, Lucy sat motionless staring into space, totally resigned to face the loss of yet another of her offspring.

The fight was over and the navvies had won. The village men returned battered and beaten to their homes. Two were dead and three more seriously injured, and not one of them survived without a wound of some sort. The victorious navvies began two days of heavy drinking ending with a march through Abbeyford village, where they took their revenge by smashing property and fighting anyone and everyone, young or old, who got in their way.

Then they returned to work on building their railway as if nothing had happened! But the bitterness and hatred in the village was irreparable.

Carrie nursed Luke devotedly, pushing all thoughts of her own happiness aside as she tried to save the life of her brother. But her knowledge of nursing was scant, and her brother too ill with consumption anyway to survive for many more years. His wound had merely precipitated the inevitable!

For two days he lay on the shakedown, sometimes unconscious, sometimes mumbling incoherently.

“Beautiful lady. Never seen – anyone so – before.”

“Letter – the letter. Carrie!”

“Not strong, can't fight him. Ruin us all … The letter – give …”

Carrie listened and heard but could not understand everything. Obviously his wandering mind was remembering Francesca, the lovely girl he had seen with Lady Lynwood. But the murmurings about a letter she could not understand.

On the third day after the fight, Luke died, quite quietly and quickly.

Carrie shed a few tears, but her mother, Lucy, was beyond tears, her emotions all used up over the harsh years of continual grief. Evan was unmoved, and the only comfort Carrie received came from Lloyd Foster.

Luke was buried in Abbeyford churchyard, so hurriedly it was almost indecent, Carrie thought. Several of the villagers gathered but only to stare with hostility at the three figures near the grave – Evan Smithson, Carrie and Lloyd Foster.

As they left the churchyard, Foster drew her arm through his own and patted her hand. “ Carrie, me lovely, you know I want you to be me wife. I've a special licence here,” he patted his coat pocket. “ Been carrying it around next me heart these past few weeks now, so I have. I have a mind to go abroad – to build railways in far-off lands, an' I want you to be with me. Do you hear me now?” His voice was gentle, coaxing, quite unlike the brash Irishman she had always thought him.

“Oh, Lloyd, I owe you so much. You tried to save Luke's life from that – that mob,” she glanced fearfully behind her to see the surly eyes of the villagers still upon them. “ But – but I don't – I can't love you, you know that.”

Again he patted her hand and sighed heavily. “I know, I know. But, me darlin', he's gone. Your pa told me. An' if you come with me, I'll be good to you – I swear it on your brother's grave, so I do.” She glanced up at him and his eyes were on her, serious and full of love.

“Oh, Lloyd – I'm sorry, I can't.”

But Carrie had reckoned without the determination of her father. “He's gone. Left you. His sort won't
marry
the likes of you. 'Specially now he's found out you're a blood relative!”