Bitter Inheritance (13 page)

‘Come in, Mr Radford! And Marcus dear! Come to the fire, it’s a cold night. Now, can Maggie fetch you a glass of sherry?’ Mrs Russell was plump and pleasant, and her daughter Maggie, in her late twenties, had obviously tried to make the best of herself with an elaborate hairstyle and an expensive dress a little too small for her and Marcus amused himself by trying to imagine how Sally would look in a dress like that. It was dark green and would have suited Sally’s colouring and her slim little figure.

Meanwhile, Oliver and Mrs Russell shared the local news. Marcus tried to enter into the spirit of the thing, but it was difficult. Maggie Russell asked Marcus whether he hunted – no – and whether he was a cricketer – no. He admitted to being interested in local history but Maggie could find nothing to say on the subject. She was looking round rather desperately, trying to find a suitable topic of conversation when dinner was served.

Marcus had to sit next to Miss Russell but as there were only four of them, the conversation was general. It was sustained very well by Oliver, who appeared to be enjoying himself. Time went by, measured every fifteen minutes by the silvery chimes of the mantelpiece clock. Making an effort, Marcus told them news of Colsterdale, but as little happened in his secluded retreat that was soon exhausted. The fish was excellent and beef followed, after a long interval. Marcus tried not to wriggle on his hard dining chair. Time went by, very slowly.

After dinner they went into the parlour and Oliver suggested music. Marcus had played several instruments at school and was a good pianist, but he rarely played on occasions like this. But starved of music as he was, he agreed to perform for them on the Russells’ new piano.

Marcus played a few chords, appreciating the beautiful tone. What should he play? For Oliver, ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ and a few other drawing-room pieces, as he called them. To finish the recital, Marcus played for Sally. He imagined she was sitting beside him. All his hopes, his sadness for what might have been, he found in the music. There was silence when he finished; the others did not know what to say. Then Maggie obliged by playing in her turn and Marcus was allowed to think his own thoughts for a while. He wondered how soon he would be able to find the time to visit Foxholes Wood and whether fifty years after the event, he would be able to find information that had eluded all the people who had searched the wood at the time.

Miss Russell delivered a rather plaintive Scottish song about calling sheep, which she hoped they would like. Meanwhile Marcus reminded himself that unless the mystery of his grandfather’s death was solved, and by a Radford at that, there was little hope of ending the feud.

‘You look sad, Mr Marcus,’ Maggie remarked as she rose from the piano.

‘It was a sad song, was it not? Very affecting.’

Walking back to the King’s Head Oliver said how much he had enjoyed the evening. ‘But you were rather quiet, I thought. You should get out more, meet new people. You’ve been up in that dale by yourself too long. But you can still play the piano, my lad.’ He laughed.

It was too late to ask questions that night, but the next morning the Radfords breakfasted together in the dining-room at the King’s Head beside a cheerful fire. This might be the best time to ask about the incident, Marcus thought, waiting until his father had enjoyed a plate of ham and eggs and several cups of coffee.

Before Marcus could speak Oliver took the initiative. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you for some time, Marcus. Now listen to me. Your old father knows what’s good for you. Don’t you think it’s high time you got married and had some children? Think of posterity, and carrying on the Radford name. I know you were upset when Elizabeth died, but life must go on, you know.’

Marcus busied himself with buttering his toast, while Oliver went on eagerly. ‘Your brother won’t settle down, not for a long time yet. It’s up to you and in my opinion, you could do worse than Miss Russell. What did you think of her?’

Marcus felt his heart sink. So there was a hidden agenda to last night’s dinner. He was to be married off to a plump farmer’s daughter, just to please the family. And even worse, if he hadn’t met Sally he might have obliged! He could hardly say so, but Marcus had thought that Miss Russell was good-natured, reasonably pretty and monumentally boring. But her chief sin, he was quite aware, was that she was not Sally Mason. Oliver was waiting for a reply.

‘Oh, Father,’ Marcus said wearily. ‘How about you? Why don’t you marry Mrs Russell? You’ve been on your own for five years now.’

Oliver grinned, pouring coffee. ‘I might do that,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You never know. We get on quite well.’

Well! That was rather unexpected. But Marcus kept his mind on his task. ‘Speaking of posterity and family, have you any old
records of the family? As you know, I’m interested in local history, and there could be something interesting.…’ Marcus tailed off, conscious that his father was looking at him hard.

‘Marcus, I am surprised at you. If you are speaking of the murder, no I have not, and I’ll thank you not to go dragging up the past! Your grandmother told me that you’d mentioned it to her and that is something we never do. I have told you to keep away from the Masons and that should be enough!’

Marcus waited a few moments and poured another cup of coffee. He looked round quickly, but they were still alone in the big dining-room.

‘Father, you seem agitated. The Masons worry you more than one would expect. Is there another problem that you haven’t told me about? I realize that it must have been a terrible shock at the time, but … it’s a long time ago. There must be something more recent?’

Oliver fiddled with his napkin and seemed at a loss for words. Then he said abruptly, ‘Well, you are right. There are things that one does not discuss.’ His mouth shut tight.

Well, Marcus thought, I got nowhere with that. But it was important to press on.

‘While we’re on the subject, you sent me to see Bartram and I told him to give Miss Mason another year at Badger’s Gill. I hope you agree.’ He spoke firmly.

His father stood up. ‘Very well, it was your decision. I am indifferent. And now I will call the waiter. My horse was to be ready for eight.’ And he strode to the door.

That night, the owner of Nidd Estates wrote yet another letter to his recalcitrant tenant at Thorpe.

A small, ironic smile twisted Oliver’s mouth as he blotted the letter. Was he enjoying this acrimonious correspondence? He rather thought he was. And he knew she’d still write back. She was nearly as bad as he was.

Marcus went straight home from Masham, saying goodbye to Oliver as they left the square, and the big horse made good time. He had decided to go round all their Colsterdale farms in turn to check that the lambing was going well. After that, he’d go to Foxholes Wood. He was committed to trying to solve the old mystery and wanted to start as soon as he could. But bad news was waiting for the young farmer in his own kitchen.

‘Oh Mr Marcus, thank the Lord you’re back! We didn’t know what to do! Poor Daniel’s tumbled down a mine shaft and bust a lot of bones, and there’s five hundred ewes to lamb over at Slapestones!’ Jeanie Brown twisted her hands in her apron, much distressed.

Marcus snapped back into the present and took the cup of tea she offered him. ‘Where is he now, Jeanie? He was lucky to get out alive. The poor lad might not know all the shafts on the moor, it’s his first lambing time with us. Did anybody show him the maps?’

‘Aye, that’s what Jesse said. Bob from next door saw him and fished him out. He likely didn’t know it used to be all lead mining up there. They took him down to Ripon hospital in a cart and there he’s to stay for a while they say, poor lad. His mother’s that worried … but what’s to become of the sheep?’

‘I will go up to Slapestones and keep an eye on the sheep. We’ve no shepherd that can be spared at the moment.’ Damn, thought Marcus, frowning as he drank the tea. That means I won’t get a chance to visit the wood for another month or so. Jeanie was still watching him and after a while, Marcus said, ‘What’s the matter, Jeanie?’

‘Well, I’m sure I hope you don’t mind, but my Jesse went up there last night, to check ewes of course and he’s to light fires and make up a bed for you. Nobody’s lived at Slapestones for years, as you know. Daniel lodged at next farm. And I’ve cooked up some pies and things for you to take.’

‘Thank you Jeanie, that was most thoughtful. Could you pack me up some candles and two oil lamps? With that, a cheese and some bread I can last for a week or two.’

After that Marcus was caught up in the familiar routine, learned in childhood. Radfords were progressive farmers and controlled as much as they could of the processes which earned their living. But we can’t predict the weather, Marcus thought grimly as he rode up to the isolated farm. If there was late snow he could be stuck here for weeks.

Slapestones made his own home look positively urban. Up here, Marcus thought as he looked round, there’s only the sheep for company and a few curlews and grouse. The system involved keeping the lambing ewes together in a paddock near the farmhouse and checking them as often as possible, in case one of them needed help. The Radford shepherds were expert in delivering lambs and ‘mothering them up’ if the ewe was not sure what to do next. There were stone buildings ready for use in very bad weather, or for sick animals.

Every lamb saved was a victory. All the Radford workers knew that every lamb saved would help to pay their wages. Records were kept so that shepherds could compete with each other in the percentage of lambs reared successfully for each flock. It was years since Marcus had needed to attend ewes himself, but he had a reputation to keep up. His records would be carefully watched by every worker on the estate. After that there was no time for thinking about anything other than sheep. Nights were broken by the need to go round the flock three or four times, and sometimes it was hard to get to sleep again, although Marcus was very tired after the first week. He could hear their incessant bleating, day and night.

If Marcus’s conscious mind was fully occupied by sheep, at another level he was thinking of Sally. One night in one of his shallow naps he dreamed about her. In the dream he was trying to
save her from falling off a precipice, but she was slipping away from him.

It would have been so pleasant to find some business in Ripon on Thursday and to see Sally and Emma for an hour or so. He desperately wanted to see her again, to wander with Sally and Emma through Ripon’s old streets. Surely it was a modest enough ambition?Living up here on top of the moors made you get back to essentials. Marcus decided the next day that as soon as the lambing was over and he could send a labourer to tend the ewes, he would go to see Sally. But first, he reminded himself, he must go to the wood.

Snow did not fall but there was rain: constant, bitter, cold rain, driving in on the wind from the North Sea. Marcus spent most of his time damp if not wet, and always had clothes drying before the fire. He imagined that down in Thorpe Sally would be working in the same weather. Her sheep would be lambing too and the cows would be cold and miserable in the fields. She’d be keeping them in the shed for most of the time, and struggling in the mud. Winter was exhausting for everybody on the land.

A few Slapestones lambs were lost, chilled by the rain before they could be warmed by their mother’s milk. A few were taken by foxes. Some of the weaker ones were bedded down with their mothers in the barns and needed extra attention to ensure their survival.

No wonder there’s no family at Slapestones, Marcus said to himself. Father could never get any of the men to live here permanently. The climate up here is twice as bad as it is lower down the hill. The constant rain was depressing and Marcus found himself descending into a settled gloom. Catching sight of himself in a mirror one day he was shocked by the stern, black-bearded stranger looking back at him.

It was nearly a month before the young shepherd Daniel came limping back and Marcus could go home. Four weeks of broken sleep, hurried meals and damp depression. The moors with their wide expansive views, so lovely in the summer, shrank in the rain to a few yards of sodden heather. Marcus was glad to leave, to get back to the lower land where spring was softening the harsh winter landscape. ‘I’ll send up another man to help you,’ he said as
he rode out of the yard. ‘It’s miserable here by yourself!’

After two or three days of warmth, good food and sleep, Marcus felt more like himself again. But some of the depression remained: he could not rid himself of the feeling of hopelessness. He found his thoughts always returning to Sally. It was hard to imagine that the Mason feud would ever be settled; it was all too long ago to find out the truth. And even if he did, the truth might not be palatable. After his time on the moor any dark, tragic thing seemed possible. Sally seemed to be forever out of reach.

Just at that time Marcus had a letter from an old friend who had been working in London and who came back to Kirkby several times a year on holiday. ‘Come over and see me when you can!’ The letter was cheerful, invigorating. It would be good to see Harry again. He was a medical specialist and full of interesting stories and good jokes. And Kirkby was quite close to Foxholes Wood. He could take a ride through the wood, just to confirm to himself that there was nothing left to see.

A pleasant April day did a little to lighten the mood as Marcus rode down from Colsterdale to Kirkby. Spring had come earlier to Kirkby and the gardens and orchards were in blossom. The air was full of the sound of birds and the sun was warmer, once Marcus dropped below the moor wind.

It was disappointing to find that Harry was not at home. Marcus settled himself on a garden bench to wait for his friend, planning to ride through the wood on his way home. Kirkby was quiet that day; Marcus could hear sounds of sawing from the carpenter’s shop and the bleating of lambs. There was nobody on the street, not a soul that he could ask about Harry’s whereabouts.

Hearing the creaking of a horse and trap, Marcus looked out over the garden wall. And there, trotting down the street, was the young horse Jed and his owner, Sally Mason. The red-gold hair was covered by a straw hat, but he’d know that trim little figure anywhere as well as that ungainly young horse, the one that turned her over up on the moor. Marcus saw with a sudden shock that Sally was not alone. Beside her was a handsome, fair young man, talking earnestly and looking at her with a turn of the head that showed great interest.

Marcus turned away, sick at heart. While he’d been trapped on
the moorland, some other man had stepped in. He should have expected it: Sally was too lovely, too vital to be left alone for long. He’d known from the start that there was no one in the world quite like Sally. And now more than ever, it was impossible. Time had taken her away. Why should this girl mean so much to him? Someone else sat beside her now where Marcus should be! He watched hungrily as the trap passed out of sight. For a long time the tall man sat in his friend’s garden. Harry did not appear and eventually when his horse stamped impatiently Marcus pulled himself together, mounted and rode off. He had no heart for anything else; he would go home.

Marcus couldn’t blame Sally. She had not heard from him for weeks and life has to on. While he was on the sodden moor, Sally had been making new friends. Marcus was surprised at himself. At twenty-eight he had not expected to be so devastated. It wasn’t jealousy so much as utter misery, like a physical pain. The dream of her slipping away came back to him with a new reality.

Sally had done the rounds with her eggs that day and Simon had come with her for the ride. They both enjoyed the spring weather and Simon planned to make a quick sketch of the Kirkby church, as they passed it on the way back to Thorpe.

It was not easy, but Sally was keeping the young man at arms’ length without upsetting him too much. She tried not to be alone with him in the house and out in the trap there were plenty of distractions.

One day when she was making up the fire in the dining-room they’d had a private conversation of the sort she had dreaded.

‘I want to talk to you Sally, but there never seems to be a chance.’ The young man’s voice was low and urgent.

Sally sat down beside him; now for it, she thought. We’d better get it over.

‘I told you back in the winter that I love you.’ The grey eyes were clear and honest as they looked at her. ‘And the more I get to know you the deeper it is. Unfortunately I can’t ask you to marry me. My health makes that impossible, it would be unfair to you. But – can you love me a little, Sally? You are so kind to me. I would be so happy with your love!’ Simon sat back in the chair and waited.

What can I honestly say? Sally thought furiously. Simon was civilized and cultivated. He was a perfect house guest and most thoughtful. She was fond of Simon; he was far more than the commercial undertaking that Emma had once recommended. But he was not Marcus Radford. That was the problem.

Sally was bound in some deep way to Marcus, even though there were skeletons in family cupboards, even though she hadn’t seen him for weeks. Did that mean he had found it all too hard? And even though he’d not asked her to marry him. But whatever happened, Sally knew that a commitment to someone else would be a betrayal of her own deepest feelings. ‘To thine own self be true….’ her mother had quoted and Sally had always remembered. She couldn’t give Simon what he wanted, the committed love of a woman to a man, and be true to herself.

‘Yes, Simon dear. I do love you, as the brother I never had. And I admire you, you know – the brave way you manage your illness, with no complaints. We all enjoy your company and we’re very fond of you. You’re one of the family at Badger’s Gill. Will you be my brother?’

Simon moved towards her and kissed Sally gently on the cheek. ‘Any kind of love you can give me, I’m grateful for. Maybe brotherly love is the best kind for me! But how I wish things were different!’ He couldn’t quite hide his disappointment. He took Sally’s hand and she felt his tremble slightly.

Love hurts, Sally thought bitterly. I know it and I can’t help it, Simon. It was time to look on the bright side. ‘Let’s try to be as happy as we can. Let’s enjoy each day, Simon. Come out with me in the trap and do some more drawing.’ Sally had turned away to hide her tears.

Jed pulled up smartly at the gate, and Simon slipped into the churchyard with his pad and pencil and a small stool. ‘I’ll wait here,’ called Sally. Jed was rather young to be left in the street on his own. She slipped the reins over his head and led him into the yard of the Queen’s Head on the opposite side of the road. There she tied him to a rail and then sat on a low wall, enjoying the sunshine. Simon was out of sight. Ten minutes went by, fifteen … through the open window of a nearby house Sally could hear a piano. Scales, exercises at first, and then the pianist played some
wistful drifting notes that seemed in perfect harmony with the drowsy afternoon. She listened in a dream, the music carrying her away until she heard a horse approaching quietly down the main street. The rider turned into Church Street and Sally saw that it was Marcus.

At first she hardly recognized him. His eyes were on the ground, he looked sterner, older. But – it was Marcus! Sally felt her whole being light up with joy. She stepped out into the road and held out a hand, in case he had not seen her. Marcus stopped motionless and looked down at Sally. There was no answering smile of greeting. Just a lifeless ‘Good day’. Then he sighed and squared his shoulders in the old way and looked straight ahead.

‘Marcus! What’s wrong?’ Sally held out her arms to him, there in the middle of the road. He must be ill!

‘Oh, Sally!’ It came out like a groan.

‘Get down off that horse!’ The red-gold hair fell over her face as Sally took off her straw hat, and she pushed it back impatiently. ‘Please!’ It was a command.

Stiffly, Marcus climbed down and followed Sally into the inn yard. Her arms went out towards him and then dropped back, as she looked up into the unhappy face. ‘Whatever is the matter, my dear Roman soldier?’

She saw Marcus relax a little. In the middle of the yard they stood close together, almost touching. Sally could feel the tension between them. His horse pushed its head forward, seemingly wanting to be included and Sally patted its nose, laughing ‘Back, Odin!’