Bitter Inheritance (16 page)

Sally gave the guest a fork and he took up his position in the
swathe next to Emma. ‘So glad to join the merry peasants!’ Emma thought there was something wolfish in his smile. Sally glanced at Emma and smiled; they had often discussed the patronizing way in which city people spoke of country folk.

Things went along quietly for a while and Mr Jackson concentrated on his task, managing the fork quite well. Perhaps her fears were groundless, Emma thought. But she found it impossible to work fast enough to draw away from him.

Gradually the other workers moved over the ridge and down the other side, lost to view. Only the amateurs, Emma and Toby Jackson, trailed behind, still going up the hill. Jackson looked up, saw the situation and grinned at Emma. ‘This is what you’ve been waiting for! Dairymaids always like a bit of fun!’ Jackson dropped his fork and came over to Emma. He grabbed her round the waist, threw her bonnet in the hedge and planted a kiss on her lips before she could resist.

Outraged, she fought back. Her boot came up and she kicked him hard in the shin.

Mr Jackson was amazed. ‘What, don’t you want a kiss? Oh, I see, playing hard to get! What fun! Of course, your sort do, it adds to the excitement!’

The man was pawing at her dress, trying to unfasten the buttons. Emma hit him with a fist and he stopped for a moment. ‘Don’t be silly dear, we don’t want an audience! Now, come here, and I’ll teach you a few things, Miss Emma.’

‘You stupid man, go away!’ Emma’s fury overcame her fear, and she kicked out again as hard as she could. ‘Just because we live in the country, don’t think we are simpletons!’ She felt the panic rising, just as it had with Mr Steele. Jackson stared at her, still holding her as she struggled. ‘I like to see a pretty girl in a rage! It becomes you, my dear!’ He stood back a little, maintaining a grip with one hand on her dress.

‘Do you not understand? You can’t treat women like this!’ Emma still held the hay fork in one hand. Should she use it?

Jackson laughed. ‘I really thought that a bit of play was part of country life! Larks in the hayloft and all that! What’s wrong with you modern girls?’ He moved towards her again. With a ferocity that surprised herself, Emma jabbed the man in the leg with her
hayfork. In pain, he yelled and let her go.

Robin had come back to look for Emma and saw what was happening. He charged over the hill at full speed and headed straight towards them, yelling as he came, waving his fork in a dangerous manner. ‘Leave her alone! She’s my girl. Stop, or I’ll kill you!’

Jackson moved back. ‘These women, they lead you on and on a hot day, it’s hard to resist! And then they pretend to be virtuous.’ He leered at Emma. ‘Hot little thing, isn’t it? She loved it really, but she won’t admit it!’

Emma was crimson with shame and rage. Her lips were bruised and she felt soiled. She turned her back on Robin, picking up her bonnet from the hedge.

‘Go away! Right now! And take yourself out of Thorpe and never come back!’ Robin was quietly ferocious. ‘Or I promise, I will break your neck!’

The man took himself off, muttering about ungrateful peasants who didn’t know what was good for them.

Robin turned to Emma, who was buttoning up her dress, hot and dishevelled. What if Robin believed that she had led Jackson on? But Robin was his usual cheerful self, now that the threat was over. ‘Come on, Emma. I should never have left you alone with him, it’s my fault. This isn’t the way we usually conduct our haymaking! Come over the hill and join the others. The beast didn’t hurt you, did he? I saw you jab him, I hope it hurt!’

Emma was trying to take herself in hand. She felt shaky, but triumphant. She had not been a passive victim, she’d fought back. ‘Thank you, Robin. The fork came in handy. I never did like that man! But oh dear, I hope you didn’t believe what he said about me!’ Emma faltered and looked down in shame.

A quiet voice spoke in her ear. ‘Nobody would believe that man, Emma!’ Strong young arms went very gently around her, and Robin said softly, ‘You’ve been treated so badly!’Automatically Emma tried to pull away, but Robin held her. ‘Dear Emma, you have to know the difference. He was an enemy, but now you’re with a friend. I really care about you. Do you not feel it?’ His suntanned face, with brown eyes earnest behind his glasses, was close to hers.

‘Robin, oh, yes … I do. But – but – I am still afraid of men.’ Emma made herself relax just a little in his arms. She began to feel safer.

Robin laughed. ‘I’m not surprised! There are some horrible characters about. But I’m not any man, I’m Robin. You feel safe with me and I want to protect you. What shall we do now, lass? Do you want to go home?’ He stroked her hair.

Emma stood up straight, as she had done to defend the Rules. ‘We have hay to make for Sally and I want to help. Let’s get on with the work, Robin.’

‘Well done.’ Robin approved and picked up their hayforks again.

‘And … lad!’ She tried to speak lightly. ‘I care about you too, but I’m not sure that we can either of us forget my past, and be normal!’ Emma felt near to tears. How could she have any sort of relationship with a man without remembering the hurt and the shame of the episode at Sheffield? And then, there was the tragedy of the little child she was not allowed to keep. She was a fallen woman, now. A bad alliance for a respectable family, and not even any sort of dowry, since her parents’ fortune had disappeared.

Robin gave one of his carefree laughs. ‘I shall be very happy to help you! But we can talk about that later.’

Robin and Emma picked up their forks and went back to turning the hay. As they worked, Robin talked quietly about the harvest, giving her time to recover. Just before they joined the others, he stopped and looked at Emma. ‘I believe that with time, you’ll feel as normal as anybody else. All you need is time.’

‘I hope you’re right, Robin.’ Emma’s muscles were screaming in protest, she had a torn dress and was exhausted, but she had never been so happy before as she was in the hayfield, that day.

‘Simon, come with us as the last load goes in. We’ve something to celebrate, a really good harvest!’ Sally bounced into the dining-room, where Simon was finishing a sketch. He looked up and there was something sad about the way he smiled at her that touched her heart.

‘I’ll bring the sketch pad,’ he said quietly.

It was hard to know how she felt about Simon, Sally thought, as she walked with him out to the barn. He was so attentive, so loving to her and so vulnerable, too. She felt almost maternal towards him and her attachment to him was growing. But it was nothing at all like her feeling for Marcus, the Roman soldier. Marcus was a distant figure to her now, out of reach. She tried not to think of him, although her heart beat faster whenever a tall horseman rode by. Her loyalty was to the Masons, she reminded herself and to her beloved guest. Simon was part of the family now and Simon needed her thought and her care; she was pleased that she could give it to him.

In the last few weeks, Sally had seen the deterioration in her guest’s health and the effort he made to conceal his weakness. Simon was brave, but he was fighting a losing battle. On her last visit, his mother had told Emma that she thought Simon was improving. ‘He loves Thorpe so much, it must be doing him good!’ And Emma had agreed, but quietly, while Simon had smiled and said nothing.

It was a warm evening and the sun was going down behind the moors, leaving a clear sky. ‘How lovely the smell of fresh hay is! But harvesting must be very hard work, especially for you and
Emma. I wish I could help you.’ He brushed the fair hair out of his eyes.

‘The fresh air will do you good. Now, let’s bring out a stool for the artist to sit on.’ Sally was determined to be bracing.

The soft light of dusk fell into the open fronted barn, where the last load of hay was being stacked. George was on the stack, because it was such a skilled job. Nobody wanted the embarrassment of a haystack that fell down through bad stacking. Traditionally, Sally should have been stacking as the official owner, but she was forking from the cart, throwing the hay over to Robin, who threw it up to George on high.

Simon was soon sketching, trying to record an impression of the busy scene. ‘This is going to be a painting!’ He seemed quite excited. ‘Oils or watercolour, I’m not quite sure.’ The workers paused for a rest and Simon made Robin pose with his fork for a sketch. ‘You move too fast for me, just stand still for a moment, please.’

Robin looked over at Sally. ‘Now, Sal, you’ve got some good hay in the barn! Next, I suggest that we go straight on and cut the second meadow!’ He looked at Simon. ‘Can I move now?’

There was a general groan at this; the others wanted a break from the gruelling field work, before starting again. But it all depended on the weather.

What do you think of the weather, Joe?’ Sally turned to her helper.

Joe shook his head. ‘We’ve had a good run with this field, but I reckon weather’s due for a change. We don’t want wet hay, ’twill moulder and make the cattle cough.’

‘And make us cough too,’ Sally reminded him, thinking of her father’s damaged lungs.

Robin moved impatiently. ‘With our new machine, it can be cut so fast we’ll have it made and home before the rain comes! Let’s get on with it. I have a reason – Pa’s promised to cut Salter’s hay up at Bramley and I want to finish yours first, Sal.’

Reluctantly, Sally agreed that the meadow could be cut the next day. But as Robin cut the hay as fast as the horse would go, Sally wondered whether they were doing the right thing. The weather was dull, but fine. There was no breeze and no sparkle in the air,
and for two days the hay lay limp and lifeless. Robin seemed to be there every two hours or so, looking at the hay and willing it to dry. ‘I feel responsible!’ he said to Emma.

Simon worked hard at his painting of the farmyard scene. The sketch was transferred to canvas, and he worked in oils. ‘I want to catch the atmosphere: the evening light and the carts and the urgency of the harvest,’ he explained to Sally.

On the third day they all turned the hay, working down the rows as before. Sally began to hope that the hay would be made before the rain, but George shook his head. And he was right; rain fell in the night and the crop was soaked. All that hard physical work had been for nothing, thought Sally, looking at her calloused hands.

A week later it was dry enough and the hay from the second field was taken into the barn, very different from the fragrant, dark green hay they had made earlier. ‘We’d better keep it separate,’ Sally decided. They stacked the hay where the breeze could blow through the barn, but it smelled warm when they had finished.

‘It will finish curing in the stack.’ Robin was optimistic as usual, and full of urgency.

This time, it was a quiet group of haymakers who gathered in the kitchen for a cup of tea when all was finished, just before evening milking. Sally wanted to move the Motley Flock to the hayfield so that they could eat up any bits that were left behind.

‘May I come with you?’ asked Robin. Rather surprised, Sally agreed and they went down the green lane to fetch the sheep. ‘I want to talk to you, Sally.’ Robin looked more serious than usual.

‘About Australia, I suppose?’ Sally watched the sheep as they clustered round her.

‘Well, in a way. I want your advice. About Emma, and whether you think I’d better leave her alone for a year or two, or talk to her now about the future. She’s young I suppose, but she’s growing up fast.’

Sally stopped in the lane, and stared at him. ‘Robin, are you – do you want to take her with you to Australia? Oh, my!’ She must have been blind, or too bound up with her own emotions, to notice the interest Robin had been taking in Emma in the months
since she’d been rescued from the river. Suddenly, she could see it. And Emma had asked her whether Robin was her particular friend….

‘I don’t think so, it would be too rough for a little lass like Emma. But if I go, Ma wants me to try it just for a year or two, and then come home. She says the only folks who settle there are the ones who can’t afford land in England.’

So Robin had told his family at last. Sally was still trying to recover from the shock he’d given her. Little Emma, who’d been almost like a daughter to her, thinking of getting married!

‘If you want my advice, I think you and Emma should talk to each other and work things out. If she wants more time – and you know, she had a terrible ordeal in Sheffield – your trip to Australia could give her breathing space.’ Sally wished she felt as calm as she sounded.

Robin nodded. ‘We’ve had very little time together, as you know. But our evenings round your piano have been wonderful.’

‘But if you want to marry Emma and your family can get over the social stigma, why not do it now, and take one of the Scott farms? She’s a wonderful housekeeper, and you should both be happy!’

Wincing, Robin opened the gate to let in the sheep. ‘Well, yes, but she has a history, of course, through no fault of her own, poor mite. My folks are a bit worried about that. But if we leave it for a few years, that should really be history, don’t you think? Or we could go up to Durham; Pa has a farm or two up there. And nobody there would know anything about Emma’s past.’

As they left the sheep happily nibbling the wisps of hay, Sally looked at Robin. ‘Seventeen isn’t really too young, you know! But I’ll be sorry to lose Emma.’ She hesitated. ‘I probably shouldn’t say this, it’s not my business. But your father might have a talk to Emma one day, about her parents’ property. The Bellamys seem to have taken it over, but of course she has no proof. No deeds, or anything like that.’

‘Pa might talk to her solicitor, for a start,’ Robin said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think it would do any harm for Pa to know she came from a good family!’

Sally smiled at him. ‘Of course not! But even better, it would
give Emma confidence to have an income of her own. She’s been quietly worried about the future, you know.’

Back in the farmyard, the cows were swinging into the milking shed, and there leaning on the gate was Sol Bartram. Sally’s heart sunk.

‘Hay’s a bit near, innit?’ He sniffed at a handful and threw it down. ‘Led too soon, that’s what I say. Evening, Mr Scott.’

Robin was about to speak when the bull ran past him, having decided not to go into the shed with the cows. He left them to turn the animal into the shed, and Sally moved away. But Sol followed her.

‘And I must say, you’re a forward piece!’ He leered at Sally.

‘What do you mean, Mr Bartram?’ Sally could feel her temper rising.

‘Having a disagreement with young Mr Radford, in the middle of Kirkby the other day! Stopping his horse in the middle of the street – what did you have in mind? You can’t do owt round here without being seen, you know!

Sally, her face fiery, walked abruptly into the milking shed, leaving Sol in the yard. When she looked out later, he had gone.

The next day, the smell of warm hay hung over the farmyard and the second crop turned a light brown. During the night, Sally woke, smelling smoke. She looked out and could see flames coming from the hay shed. She had heard that damp hay could heat up until it caught fire, but it was hard to imagine. The hay had been warm, but not hot when they went to bed. She was horrified. This was her precious winter feed for the animals. Trying not to panic, Sally went across the landing and called Emma. Whispering so as not to wake Simon, she asked the girl to go across the green to fetch George and then dressed hurriedly. Where were all the buckets? Some in the scullery, some on the stone slab outside the dairy. There was a big pump in the yard and a trough for watering the stock.

First of all, Sally primed the pump, filled the stone trough and found as many buckets as she could. Then she found the beaters, and tried to stamp out the flames. The haystack was burning at one end, which was strange if this was a case of spontaneous combustion. The middle of the stack would be the hottest, wouldn’t it?

Soon Sally was joined by Emma, with Martha and George, and they formed a chain to pass buckets of water across the yard to the fire, working as fast as they could. By the eerie glow from the flames, they could see each other scrambling about. Moll, the old dog, set up a panic barking, but no animal was in danger. In summer, the cattle always slept in the fields.

After a few minutes, the water started to take effect. The flames gradually lessened and thick smoke hid the fire from view. Turning, Sally found Simon beside her in the gloom. ‘You shouldn’t be here!’ she called. ‘Simon, please go back to the house!’ Exertion like this could kill him, weak as he was. Simon coughed and passed her a bucket of water. ‘I want to help you all, Sally.’

‘Go and fetch a lantern, then! We’ll soon be in the dark when the fire dies right down.’

The young man brought out two lanterns and hung them in the yard near the water pump, which improved the operation considerably. Then he joined the bucket chain again. The buckets of water got heavier as the night wore on, but eventually the fire fighters could see that they were winning. Simon worked beside Sally, passing buckets with the rest, his face pale, but with a look of joy. ‘I’ve always wanted to get out here and help you when you needed me, girl,’ he whispered to Sally as he passed her a bucket. ‘This is my dream come true.’

‘I do appreciate it, Simon,’ Sally panted, as she passed him the next time. ‘But I wish you wouldn’t. It could be bad for your heart.’

‘Bugger my heart, to quote Joe!’ Simon was unrepentant. ‘Just for once, I’m a real man!’ In fact, Simon was a great asset; the more hands the better, in a fire. Sally and Emma, George and Martha were doing their best, but there was no time to run for more help. Joe lived at the other end of the village, too far away. So Simon took his place in the chain, knowing that he was needed.

It took them two hours to put out the fire and when they gathered in the kitchen for a drink of tea, George’s face was grim. ‘Hay was a bit damp, but not that damp.’ He passed a weary hand over his brow. ‘I doubt it would have gone up on its own.’ There was a silence as George took a deep swig of tea. ‘That fire was deliberately lit. I found a tin of paraffin on the ground outside the barn.
And I’ll wager that Joe wouldn’t have left it lying about.’

They all knew that the methodical Joe was obsessively tidy about the farmyard and especially careful with lamps and oil. There had been cases of stable fires over the years. They’d heard of a recent one, when a lamp fell into a pile of straw at Kirkby. After that fire, Joe had warned Sally several times of the danger and made her take all lamps out of farm buildings after work was finished.

George went out and returned with the container. It could have been bought at the village shop, Sally realized, because she had seen them there. But at Badger’s Gill they always bought oil in larger amounts. This tin did not belong to Sally. She remembered Sol Bartram jeering in the yard the night before and shuddered. ‘Sol was here at milking time.’ She looked at the others.

Martha shook her head. ‘I always said he wanted this farm. He’s trying to force you out lass, by one means or another!’

George spoke slowly as he said, ‘If I could prove that Sol Bartram torched this here hay, I’d—’

Martha interrupted him quickly. ‘You’d tell PC Brown, that’s what you’d do!’

George subsided. ‘Aye, and that would be the end of it. Masterly inactivity, that’s what doctor says PC Brown is good for.’

What can you do against hatred like that, thought Sally. You can lock up your house maybe, but nobody can lock up a farm. For the first time, Sally wondered whether Sol had waged a long campaign against the Masons. Some of the misfortunes that occurred in her father’s time could have been deliberate. It was a chilling thought.

There was no rejoicing at Badger’s Gill the next day. They had beaten the fire and saved most of the mediocre second crop. But Simon had collapsed. Sally felt guilty, although she knew she’d done her best to keep him away from the fire. And Simon had worked beside them as one of the team and he had been happy. It was what he had wanted. But what had it done to his precarious health?