Bitter Inheritance (15 page)

Turning over the old story in his mind, Marcus tried to imagine
himself into the scene. The two friends rode into the wood together, just as he had done. In the middle of a summer’s day, with no sinister twilight. Just suppose for a moment that Samuel Mason had red hair and a volatile nature. A vivid image of Sally, dancing with impatience, came to him. Did she inherit that red hair from a volatile grandfather? This was not a comfortable thought. Reluctantly, Marcus took the story further in his mind. Suppose that the two friends had argued and in a hot temper, Mason had struck Radford. He might have been injured or killed by a freak blow to the temple. Here, the story broke down.

Sally might be hasty and rather excitable but she was full of a shining integrity. And any person of integrity would, in the situation as he’d imagined it, try to get help immediately. A grandfather of Sally’s would surely have admitted what had happened and faced up to the consequences. Any man of sense in fact would have owned up. Wouldn’t that be better than facing a lifetime of evasion, of deceit and isolation? Samuel Mason must have endured a lonely life as an outcast in his own community. High-Siders never forgot or forgave; his grandmother was an example of that. Marcus sighed and rode on through the moonlit landscape. Now he was at the top of the moor and could see the valley glimmering below and the faint lamplight in the windows of Nidd Grange.

‘It’s good to see you, lad. But I’m afraid you’re too late for dinner – there’s none left!’ Oliver came forward to greet his son in the hall, looking pleased. ‘Fancy a game of chess?’

I feel like a pawn on the losing side, Marcus thought. ‘I’d like a bite of bread and cheese and a drink!’ He pulled off his riding gloves.

Oliver’s housekeeper soon bustled in with a tray of food that contained much more than bread and cheese and drew up a small table for him by the fire. Although it was early May, the evenings still held a chill.

‘Would you care for a whisky?’ Oliver looked over the hearthrug at him. ‘We haven’t had a drink together for a long time and there’s the bottle you gave me at Christmas.’

His father poured generous measures of the old malt and Marcus added plenty of water to his own glass. He wanted to be
able to think clearly. Father was in a good mood, more mellow and relaxed than usual. Evidently the farms were in good order, the farm servants were behaving well and nobody’s pig had died. When things went wrong, Oliver could be very gloomy.

Reporting progress for Colsterdale, Marcus was pleased that he had good news to offer. ‘More lambs than last year. Daniel’s on the mend and as you’ll know, the wool prices are set to rise.’

Oliver almost smiled. ‘Ah. You do well, my boy. I always thought we could produce more lambs over there.’

When the tray was taken away, Marcus picked up the whisky bottle. ‘Will ye tak another wee dram?’

Oliver laughed. ‘You sound like Tom when he comes down from Edinburgh. Have you heard from him lately?’ They talked about Marcus’s younger brother for a while, and Oliver leaned back in his big leather chair, content.

‘Father, I have to ask a favour. I must try once more, there is so much at stake. Would you please tell me about the past? I wonder what happened to you personally, fifty years ago, that has had such a lasting effect on you? That makes you still hate the Masons?

Oliver closed his eyes, looking suddenly older, and waved a hand. ‘Not fifty … but over thirty years ago it was. My world turned upside down,’ he said hoarsely. ‘But why should I bore you with the story?’

Marcus waited, looking into the fire.

Oliver sat up again. ‘You might as well know, I suppose … you’ll be the first. I have never talked about it. And it was all over long before you were born. Before I met your mother.’ He sighed.

Marcus sat very still.

‘I fell in love you see, with the most beautiful woman in the world. Louisa Benson was a lovely girl and from a good family. She had a sweet disposition, too. I was young and headstrong, and rather serious I suppose … perhaps not light-hearted enough. But that girl meant everything to me. I couldn’t live without her.’ There was a silence and Oliver took a sip of his whisky. ‘In a way, I didn’t. The daft lad in me died and I was harder, more ruthless after that. Good for business, I suppose.’ The handsome face looked stern, even in repose.

‘Of course I loved your mother, though in a calmer sort of way. We were happy together, you know that. We were a happy enough family until she died.’

‘We were,’ said Marcus gently. He still missed his calm, practical mother.

‘I think she helped me to survive.’ Having started, Oliver seemed keen to revisit the past. ‘I was very bitter and she helped me over that, your mother did.’

Marcus was aware of a deep sympathy. Father was human after all, and had been just as passionate as he himself. And just as unlucky.

‘Louisa had lovely copper-coloured hair and a creamy skin. And she could be fiery, too!’

‘Oh, dear. She sounds dangerous!’ Marcus thought of Sally.

‘I never told anyone – it seemed disrespectful to your mother. And of course we don’t talk about emotions. Not until we’ve had enough whisky, that is!’

After a while Marcus ventured again. ‘What happened to Louisa, Father? Did she die?’

Oliver shifted in his chair. ‘She married Robert Mason. I had never told her of my feelings, of course. I was hoping to, but there was never a chance. I didn’t know she had any other attachment, until their engagement was announced. And then it was too late. So she never knew.’ Oliver sighed.

So the beautiful Louisa was Sally’s mother.

‘There was no love lost between us and the Masons, of course, ever since the murder.’ He persisted in calling it a murder. ‘But for me that was the last straw. I hated him.’

Things begin to fit into place, thought Marcus. Oliver hated the Masons because Robert had stolen his best girl … a girl with red hair. So Sally got her glorious hair from her mother and not her grandfather. And so the theory of the crime of redheaded passion that Marcus had invented earlier didn’t hold up. Marcus took a deep breath. ‘Now I understand. That’s why you don’t want to meet Sally Mason. And you won’t go near Badger’s Gill!’

‘That’s why. So don’t push me, Marcus!’ Oliver looked tired, but there might never be another chance to talk like this. Marcus went resolutely on to the sticking point for the Mason family, the
reason for their own reciprocal hatred.

‘So then when you had the chance, you bought the Mason’s farm out of revenge? So you had a hold over them?’

His father shook his head with a wry smile. ‘Don’t be dramatic, lad. It was good business, the right price. It’s good land you know, better than this.’ He paused. ‘And there was another reason. I did it to help Louisa.’

Marcus was bewildered. ‘To help?’

‘They were in terrible trouble financially – almost in the poorhouse. It was bad luck mostly, although I must say they weren’t too hard-nosed in their dealings. Farmers should be hard-nosed to survive! Cattle plague took all their stock and that’s sheer bad luck. But there was nobody would buy their farm and lease it back to them. They couldn’t afford to wait, and Watson never got a bid. So I bought it.’ Oliver laughed. ‘Folks thought I did it for revenge. I didn’t mind so long as nobody knew the truth. It’s not good to be thought too soft, not on the High Side.’

Suddenly the story had taken another turn. ‘You were watching over her still, and she didn’t know it!’ Or perhaps she did. Sally had told him that her father and uncle were bitter about the Radfords, but her mother had never uttered a word against them.

‘Don’t get too romantic, Marcus. I told you it was a good deal.’

The two men sat in silence for a while and the fire burned low. Then Marcus roused himself. ‘I’d better go to bed. But, just one more thing, Father, and I won’t mention the business again. If the Masons wanted to buy back the farm, would you sell it?’

Oliver stood up with his arm on the mantelpiece. ‘They wouldn’t be able to afford it, Marcus. It’s worth too much these days. They’d never raise the cash.’

Two battered leather suitcases stood in the hall and Emma circled them warily, feeling apprehensive. Visitors were coming, which meant change. But Emma liked things just as they were and didn’t want anything to change. The carrier had delivered the luggage, but no people appeared. ‘They’re walking up from Ripon,’ Sally explained. ‘They’ll be here before dark. Would you like to make them a gooseberry pie?’

While the pie was in the oven with some scones, Sally made a fruit cake. Walkers were likely to be hungry and would expect good farmhouse fare. They could have the traditional ham and egg ‘high tea’ this evening. Martha had told her what to expect. They had decided that Simon could eat at a separate table, just like hotel dining-rooms. He could then talk to them or not, as he wished. He seemed to be looking forward to seeing new faces.

Emma ran upstairs and checked over the two spare bedrooms, now to be used by the walkers. Simon’s parents had stayed twice and some of his friends had come to see him, giving Emma more practice with guests and adding a little to the income since they all insisted on paying. They had all loved Badger’s Gill, which gave both Sally and Emma more confidence.

Everything was in order, she noted with satisfaction. Emma herself had sewn pretty new bedcovers and pillowslips. The ancient furniture was polished with beeswax to a high gloss, because Emma loved to polish. Her love of order, once so set on rules, had transferred itself to housekeeping and Emma had found that she was good at it. The marble washstands were set with jug and basin, with towels, sponges and soap to hand.

There was one problem, a thought that kept bringing back the shameful memories of the past and Mr Steele. One of the rooms was next to her own and round the corner from the other rooms. Emma went downstairs again, slowly. ‘Sally, do you think – is it possible to have a lock put on my door?’

With the cake halfway to the oven, Sally paused. ‘All the bedroom doors can be locked. There’s a pin on the sneck. Haven’t you noticed?’

What on earth was a sneck? ‘I don’t quite understand, Sally. Sorry.’

‘It’s I should say sorry, lass. That’s a dialect word we use up here, for a latch!’ Sally laughed and they both went up on to the wide landing at the top of the stairs. The downstairs doors were solid panelled affairs, with big brass knobs. Emma knew them well, because she polished the knobs. But upstairs were old-fashioned latches, painted black. A small pin on a chain could be slipped into place and the latch couldn’t be raised.

‘But why worry about a lock, suddenly?’ Sally asked.

Emma felt uncomfortable. ‘It’s just the visitors….’

‘Don’t worry, Emma, love. They’ll be decent gentlemen, I am sure. Just like Simon and his folks. You didn’t worry when Simon came, did you?’

Sally was looking at her keenly and Emma blushed. ‘No, I didn’t. He was an invalid! But these guests are tough walkers and they—’ she couldn’t finish. They were temporary, passing through, just like that other man.

Sally sat down on the big oak chest on the landing and drew Emma down beside her. ‘These gentlemen will be just like Robin. Now Emma, you feel quite happy with Robin, don’t you?’

It was true; Emma felt safe with Robin, secure, somehow. He was light-hearted, but also reliable and he seemed to understand how she felt about most things, without her having to explain. She nodded. ‘Of course I do, Sally. He’s our friend!’ She decided to be brave and plunged on. ‘Is Robin your particular friend, Sally? I’ve sometimes wondered whether you and he were … but I shouldn’t ask. I’m sorry.’

A loud rap on the front door made them both jump. They straightened their black dresses and prepared to meet the guests.
As they went down, Sally put a hand over Emma’s for a moment, on the banister. ‘No, Emma. I’m quite fond of the lad, but I’m not in love with him. Now, let’s put our caps on.’

Emma went into the kitchen as Sally greeted the guests. She could be introduced later. And she wondered as she put the kettle on the fire, why she felt suddenly lighter, and happy that Sally wasn’t excessively fond of Robin.

There was a buzz of talk in the hall and a laugh or two. Then the walkers clattered upstairs to wash off the dust of the road, saying how hungry they were. They seemed to be pleased with their rooms, thank goodness; Sally had carried up the cases before they arrived.

Emma’s first look at the strangers was in the dining-room, where two clean rosy faces, with plastered-down wet hair, turned expectantly towards her. ‘Food! Thank you so much!’ Both lads were more interested in their supper than in the waitress, which suited Emma very well. Neither of the young men looked in the least like Mr Steele. She gave them plates of ham and eggs and stood before them with her hands folded, in the proper serving attitude.

‘I was to ask whether there is anything that you don’t like to eat?’ she asked.

Simon came into the dining-room just behind her and sat at his little table. He bowed in the direction of the guests and said easily, ‘Good evening, and welcome to Badger’s Gill. I can recommend all the dishes that Miss Mason provides; the food here is excellent.’

‘So it is!’ The taller of the two men looked up briefly from his plate. ‘Especially when you haven’t eaten since breakfast!’

Emma observed that the men were quite young, in their early twenties and they wore old, shabby tweeds. They both looked tanned and fit. She heard them introduce themselves to Simon. ‘We’ve come by train from Leeds and we plan to walk every day this week. Walking is a nice change from our usual work. We’re teachers, of course.’

Simon smiled and reached for the salt. ‘So it must be half term, I gather. I am Simon Drury, a guest here, and this is Miss Wakefield, the assistant housekeeper.’

Emma blushed. What a grand title!

One of the guests looked across, apologetically. ‘So sorry, I thought you were a maid! How do you do, Mr Drury, Miss Wakefield.’

‘How do you do.’ The other smiled at Emma appreciatively. ‘You took early promotion, then!’

I’m seventeen, Emma thought. And a good enough housekeeper, too. She smiled slightly, and took away the tray.

The walkers required an early breakfast, much earlier than Simon’s, but that was easy. The household was always up early. They were out all day and only returned for supper. And presumably they slept well after their days in the open air, for nothing was heard during the night. Emma began to relax about halfway through the week. These guests were no trouble at all. She told them about the walk down to the river and the next day they walked all the way to Masham along the riverbank, had lunch at the King’s Head and walked back in time for supper.

By the end of the week, Emma quite liked the visitors and chatted to them easily. She was proud of this; it meant that she was normal, after all. Perhaps she would get over her fear of men in time. She hadn’t very much experience of talking to strange men and she had no brothers. But as Sally had pointed out, she enjoyed the company of Simon and Robin. They proved that men could be respectful and kind-hearted.

When they left, the walkers thanked Sally and Emma for their wonderful hospitality and promised to come again. The visit had been a success. It was agreed between them that Sally would accept more bookings from walkers, if any came. She said as much to Mrs Hollis at the post office, who was likely to be asked about accommodation. She said that strangers often passed through in summer, and she would recommend Badger’s Gill.

In the middle of June there was a spell of fine weather and Sally realized that the hay should be cut. There were two hay meadows and she decided that they would harvest one before cutting the other.

‘’Twill give us time to get it properly, and split the risk if the weather turns,’ agreed Joe wisely. He was in charge of sharpening
the scythes and George would be the other mower.

When Robin heard of the plans, he had another idea. ‘Pa’s bought a horse mower and it’s very fast. Much easier than scythes! Would you like me to cut the grass? I could do it tomorrow and help you to harvest it, too. Ours has already been done; it’s Pa’s idea to cut the grass while it’s still green. Takes more drying, though!’

Robin went off to get permission from his father, which he said was a mere formality, as a stranger came up the path. Bravely, Emma went to the door. Taking off his hat, the young man revealed a brown face and dark eyes. He smiled pleasantly as he said, ‘The lady at the post office recommended your guest house, Miss Mason. Could I have a bed for a night or two? My name is Toby Jackson.’

‘I will ask Miss Mason, Mr Jackson. I am the assistant housekeeper.’ Emma turned and marched inside.

Sally invited the man in with her usual friendly smile and showed him to a room. He had no luggage apart from a small pack on his back. His purpose in taking the holiday was to experience country life and he hoped that Miss Mason would allow him to walk over the farm.

‘I am afraid we’re very busy this week, Mr Jackson. It’s haytime, we cut the first meadow tomorrow. But I’ll see what can be done.’

Mr Jackson ate hungrily, as the others had done, while talking to Simon about art. The two had much in common, both being amateur artists. Simon enjoyed the change of company but from the start, Emma felt uneasy about Mr Jackson. Unlike the first two young men, he looked at her a lot, which made her blush and he teased her: ‘What will the assistant housekeeper do today?’ he enquired at breakfast. ‘May I call you Emma? You are a very pretty girl, young Emma.’ His eyes roved over her figure in a most disconcerting way. Simon was engrossed in the
Yorkshire Post
and didn’t notice. The table was cleared quickly and Emma escaped into the kitchen. She was thankful when she saw Mr Jackson go off down the village with his pack.

At supper that night, Mr Jackson was even more familiar and Simon did notice this time. He frowned and asked him politely to leave Emma alone. ‘She is very shy, Mr Jackson, and doesn’t like to be teased.’

‘Nonsense! All young girls like to flirt a little. I mean no harm, Mr Drury!’

During the day, the meadow had been cut with the Scotts’ new horse-drawn machine and Robin came in for a drink and a bite to eat before going home.

‘What do you think to that?’ he asked proudly, wiping the hayseeds from his sweaty face. Joe and George were the most impressed because of the hard work it had saved them.

‘By, it’s a grand outfit!’ Joe beamed at Robin.

Sally was keen to plan the next stage. She explained the process to Emma, who remembered the first time she saw Sally the year before, bringing in the hay. ‘We leave it in the sun for a day or two and then we turn the grass with hay forks – you know, the two-pronged ones in the barn? And hope for a breeze, and no rain. Then when the grass is nearly dry, we rake it into little mounds called haycocks. That makes it safer from the rain. We lead it when it’s cured – bring it into the hay barn, that is.’

‘You’ll need plenty of helpers, Sal. Why doesn’t Emma have a go?’ Robin helped himself to a second scone. ‘These fat rascals are good, who made ’em?’

‘Emma made them, Robin … but Emma might not like to help with the hay. It’s hard work, very hot. She’s not used to farm work, as we are.’

Sally was trying to look after her, as always. But Emma thought that it would be good to help Sally, when she needed it the most. ‘I’d like to help, if you think I would be any good,’ she said diffidently.

In two days, the grass was judged ready to turn and the haymakers took to the field. Martha volunteered to bring out their refreshment, which was all-important and much anticipated. So both Sally and Emma were free to work in the hayfield.

Emma was decked out in a large straw bonnet and advised to wear long sleeves against the sunburn. Feeling rather scared, she took the long hay fork. What had she let herself in for?

Robin was beside Emma and he showed her how to flip the swathe of grass over, to show the damp underside. ‘And then, you can let it fall gently, like this …’ and the breeze blew through the grass, as it fell lightly to earth. ‘Every little helps, Emma. Every
forkful you move is one less for someone else! So don’t try to rush, just work at your own pace.’

The fork seemed heavy and soon Emma’s hands were sore. But she persevered and after a while found a rhythm and began to feel that she could cope. Robin and Sally, Joe and George, were all doing the same thing, moving steadily across the field, leaving a trail of light green grass behind each fork.

After a couple of hours, it was time for the mid-morning break. Emma was slower than the others and her row was the last to be turned, but she was proud of the fact that she could keep going.

‘Have some bait!’ Joe said. There were many different names for the mid-morning snack. Emma sat thankfully on the ground, happy to drink cold tea and eat a scone. It was wonderful to sit down, even on the hard ground.

Robin came over to inspect Emma’s hands. ‘You need some salve on those blisters!’ He gave her a pair of gloves to protect her hands. ‘You’re going very well, lass!’ That was high praise.

All too soon, the workers took to the field again and this time it was harder for Emma. Her muscles and back ached and she fell further behind. She envied Sally for being able to move so easily and quickly across the field. After half an hour of steady work, Emma stopped to wipe her brow and noticed that the hay was turning colour, from light green to a deeper colour, as it dried in the sun. The scent of drying grass was sweet, holding the faint perfume of the meadow flowers. Clover, milkmaids, ladies’ bedstraw were all mixed with the grass, in the gradual curing of the hay. Although the work was hard, Emma enjoyed the experience; the hayfield was framed with tall hedges, beyond which they could see a patchwork of fields and woods. From the distant workers came the faint sound of talking and laughter. It was a happy, peaceful scene.

The peace of the morning was soon broken, however. Emma saw a figure striding over the field to join them and her heart sank. It was Mr Jackson, evidently still eager to join in country life. She didn’t think that he would appreciate the hard work of the hayfield, but if he wanted to join them he would have to sweat a little.