Bitter Inheritance (3 page)

Marcus looked down at Sally and she felt very conscious of the shawl, now dripping with moisture from the fog. Why did she always have to feel so inelegant? Because she was a farmer, she supposed.

‘I am just looking over the farm for the new tenant,’ he explained. ‘He’s not living here as yet. I must warn him about leaving gates open. Sheep are obviously a problem here.’ He gave her a sideways glance and Sally nodded her head vigorously.

‘Oh yes, they are! I’m just passing by, taking a short cut over the hill; there are footpaths here as I suppose you know. That one,’ and she pointed to a narrow path leading to a stile, ‘leads over Nutwith Common, it’s the quickest way to Masham from
Thorpe.’ This bit of the story was true, at least.

‘I like to ride these cross-country tracks. I’m a historian, only an amateur of course, but I try to read the landscape for clues. Now do you think those footpaths are medieval, or are they even older? Prehistoric, perhaps?’ He looked at her, considering.

Sally laughed. ‘My mother and father used to wonder that too. They read a lot of history, you see, and tried to make it alive – my mother was a teacher; she often brought the children from Thorpe school up here in summer to show them the fort, before she died.’ Tears came into her eyes and she blinked them away.

Marcus turned away tactfully. ‘So the place has a lot of memories for you. I feel the same way about Lofthouse, over in Nidderdale. The Nidd was a magic river, when I was a child!’

They looked at each other and Sally felt an attraction of a new kind, as if she wanted to know more about the mysterious ‘Marcus’. Not many local farmers were interested in history. He must own the farm. Her father would have known who owned the land here, but Sally couldn’t remember. ‘It’s your land, I suppose? You actually own a Roman fort?’

‘My family does. We have a few farms scattered over the High Side. Sometimes I think we should sell them all, the sheep runs, and buy some good land down yonder.’ He pointed to the valley of the River Ure. ‘Folks down there are already thinking about the hay harvest while we’ve only just started shearing. It’s more civilized, down on the river flats. But then, you don’t get views like this one. Are you interested in farming?’ The question was so sudden that Sally jumped.

Meeting his thoughtful dark eyes with her own blue ones, Sally said, ‘I’ve lived on a farm all my life. It’s hard work but I’d hate to live in a town, even a small one like Ripon.’

Marcus smiled and Sally felt more at ease. He looked quite human when he smiled. ‘But Ripon is an ancient city, plenty of history there. It might be easier than following footpaths in the fog. For a young lady, that is.’

It would be hard now to admit she was the owner of the sheep. If only she’d not been dressed so shabbily! But she would probably never see him again, so it didn’t matter.

‘It was good to meet you, Miss Bo-Peep. I’ll collect my horse
and be off. Just tell the shepherd to get the sheep off, will you?’ Marcus raised a hand in salute and dropped down the bank to where a tall chestnut horse was tied to a tree. Sally hadn’t noticed the horse before; it was very well bred.

Sally decided to walk away from her delinquent flock and try to retrieve them later in the afternoon, when Marcus was out of sight.

They seemed happy enough in their hollow. But the flock had other ideas. There was a sharp clink of the bucket as Sally turned away and that was their signal. They jumped to their feet and assembled in a fairly orderly bunch round her, like children ready for a treat. The Motley Flock had had their fun and they wanted to go home. Sally ignored them and swung down the path, walking as fast as she could, but Mary and Lavinia followed, with the rest tagging on behind. The game was over, it was time to go. They bleated happily at Sally as they trotted along, peering up at her through their woolly fringes.

‘You horrible sheep!’ Sally was exasperated. But she was also proud of her flock at the same time.

Marcus came up on his horse and to her surprise he was laughing, bending over his saddle and trying to catch his breath. ‘Caught you out! You can’t deny ownership now, Bo-Peep!’

Blushing furiously, Sally went off down the farm track, the sheep behind her, following closely with their eyes on the bucket. The lambs galloped to keep up. Marcus let her go ahead but then caught up as she came to the road. ‘Would you like some help to get them home, Bo-Peep?’

‘No, thank you. I’m sorry I wasn’t entirely truthful … I was so ashamed.’ Sally’s face was hot and when she raised it to look at him, she saw the ironic glint in his eyes again. ‘I don’t usually set out to deceive, but do you know, someone deliberately opened the gate and let the sheep escape!’

The horseman shook his head. ‘A despicable trick. Report him when you find out who it was. And put a padlock on the gate. We can’t have this happening again!’ He swung the horse to face her. ‘Perhaps I should follow behind to make sure they don’t stray?’

To make sure they were well clear of the farm more likely, Sally thought. ‘They follow me very well, thank you. I apologize for them and I’m grateful for your – tolerance. I’m sorry that they
strayed on to your land.’ It sounded strained, a formal little speech, but Sally felt she had to say something. He’d been quite kind. The sheep stood still, waiting for Sally to make a move. Mary, as usual, was standing very close, hoping that the girl would stroke her woolly head. How embarrassing!

‘I’ve never seen such a well-behaved flock, I must say. Most impressive!’ His voice softened a little. ‘You must be a good shepherdess, Bo-Peep.’

‘Thank you. I reared them all myself and now I’m ashamed of them!’ Sally saw the funny side of the situation and in spite of herself, laughter bubbled up. Her shawl fell back and stray curls came tumbling round her face. ‘Oh Marcus, I am so sorry!’

‘Don’t let it happen again, miss.’

Reluctantly Sally turned to go back down the hill to Thorpe. She wanted to get home as soon as possible, away from this dreadful situation. But at the same time she had a strange feeling that she wanted to stay on the damp hilltop, talking to this interesting man. Who was he? Marcus, too seemed slow to leave. He was busily adjusting his girth, fiddling with the stirrups and then leading his horse out on to the track. Perhaps he was keeping an eye on her. Did he suspect that she’d take the sheep back up the hill, as soon as he’d gone?

‘I hope that we may meet again in better circumstances! And more comfortable surroundings, too.’

‘Could hardly be worse,’ Sally muttered as, with a wave, the man turned his horse and cantered off.

The Motley Flock was severely reprimanded by its owner later in the day, not for the first time. The sheep stood in a circle, back home safely in the paddock, and gazed up at her, as Sally told them what she thought of them. ‘And made me look so stupid in front of – in front of a stranger!’ She blushed again at the thought. There was an old padlock in the barn and Sally locked up the gate with a big chain that night. She’d have to remember where she put the key. Marcus would be pleased that she’d taken his advice.

She couldn’t find out who he was because Camp Farm had changed hands in the last month or so and nobody seemed to know who’d bought it. ‘Some big farmer from Ripon way,’ said Robin laconically. She would probably never see him again.

‘I am sorry to have to say this to the mistress of a respectable household.’ The doctor looked over the top of his glasses and the respectable Mrs Bellamy looked sternly back. She sat upright in rustling black, thin and elegant, waiting for the verdict.

‘This young woman is almost certainly pregnant. Either that or she has a large tumour. Pregnancy, taking into account all the symptoms, is the more likely.’

Mrs Bellamy’s icy calm was broken. Her hand flew to her mouth and her voice was high. ‘Surely not! The child is only sixteen and young for her age! She goes nowhere alone! We are her guardians! How can she be … have you told her?’

‘Not yet. I thought it best to speak to you first.’ The doctor looked out of the window, wondering how soon he could make his escape. On a fine June day such as this he would rather be out of town than in grimy Sheffield, even in the upper-class suburbs. The sun filtered weakly through the smoky haze of industry. You never saw real sunshine in Sheffield.

Emma stood up nervously as the doctor and Mrs Bellamy came back in. Her hands twisted together and she looked at the floor as her guardian spoke in a stern, quiet voice. ‘Emma Jane! Is there anything you are hiding from us?’

‘N-no, Mrs Bellamy.’ What could she mean?

‘Dr Murray says that you may – you may be with child!’ It was a terrible whisper. ‘How can this be?’

Emma flushed crimson as the light dawned. She should have realized that it could happen. That young Mr Steele, a business acquaintance of her uncle’s, had stayed in the house on his way to London. Had stayed a few weeks in the end, as he and Uncle had
made some business arrangements. She had hated Mr Steele.

‘I will leave you now, Mrs Bellamy.’ The doctor packed up his bag. ‘It seems that the young person has something to tell you. I will examine her again in a few weeks. Good day.’

When the doctor had gone Mrs Bellamy turned on Emma in a fury. ‘Is this how you repay our kindness: taking you in as an orphan after your parents died? Making you a member of a respectable family in Sheffield, a leading family of cutlers with a reputation to uphold? I never thought, never ever thought that you would bring us to this disgrace!’ She paused. ‘You will be whipped, of course.’

Emma looked at the carpet and tried to concentrate on its pattern. There was nothing she could say.

‘Who is the man? He shall be made to marry you! Tell me this instant, Emma Jane! With whom have you besmirched our name?’

She could still smell the drink on his breath, hear his excited giggle as he climbed into bed beside her. They’d given Mr Steele a room next to Emma and she had no lock on her door. She’d tried to wedge it with a chair after the first night, but he’d still managed to get in. Emma had cried, but he had threatened her. ‘I’ll kill you if you tell anybody at all. Remember that.’ Strong hands had closed round her throat. Small and pale, Emma had never expected to be in danger from a man. She hadn’t thought very much about where babies came from, but had a hazy memory of what had happened last year when a maid got into trouble and had to be married off quickly.

‘I can’t say.’ Hot tears forced themselves out from under Emma’s closed eyelids. Her head ached. How she wished she could feel well again.

Her guardian shook her arm roughly. ‘I demand that you tell me. Where have you been? Did you sneak off somewhere while Mr Bellamy and I were away in April? That must be it! I don’t know what Mr Bellamy will say when he hears this, but you are in deep trouble, you stupid girl! Brazen hussy, for all your meekness. You must have provoked some poor man, led him on … you slut!’

Emma remembered those awful nights, the dread that he would come again: he usually did. She remembered the pain and the shame of it and the way he’d laughed when he left her shuddering.
He was on the way to business deals abroad, thank goodness. She would never see him again so long as they didn’t find out who did it. That much Emma held on to, as she looked at the carpet. She didn’t want them to pursue Mr Steele. It was possible they’d make him marry her and she would have that dreadful nightly ordeal for the rest of her life! Anything was better than that.

‘To think that after we gave you a home and a family, you should behave like this.’ Mrs Bellamy went on and on, but eventually she ran out of breath and Emma was left alone in the morning-room.

It was true the Bellamys had taken her in after her parents died. But they had also taken over the business interests and money built up by her father, a property owner, who had been a distant relative. Emma was given a small room and allowed to eat at the Bellamy’s dining-table. But she was not encouraged to join in the conversation. There was a maid for the rough work and a cook, but Emma did much of the housework and all the sewing for the household.

Emma was often severely disciplined ‘for her own good’, which meant that she was whipped. Mr Bellamy took a small horsewhip to her of the kind used by jockeys, for the slightest reason. If Emma dropped a plate, she was whipped. Mr Bellamy seemed to enjoy it, although he said it was his unpleasant duty. She was a drudge and she knew it. Her parents’ money had disappeared and the only escape Emma could think of was to try to find a post as a governess. But she looked so young and small, it would be hard to find work. The whipping took away her confidence. And since those nights of torment she’d felt even less confident about asking anyone for a job. She felt guilty somehow, and very frightened of men.

The next few days were a nightmare for Emma. Why had she not realized what was happening to her body? Why did nobody explain these things to young people? Mr Bellamy was appalled, of course. He wanted to get rid of Emma as soon as possible, and told her so.

Gradually through the gloom, a faint hope glimmered. They talked of sending her to the country. Somewhere remote so that her disgrace would not affect their respectable standing. In Sheffield they were pillars of the church, known for their gifts to charity. ‘We try to set a standard for the workers to follow,’ Mr Bellamy said smugly at board meetings.

Emma had been to the Dales for holidays in the days when she had loving parents and a happy life. ‘The country’ always had a sort of golden glow for her. If she could get away from the Bellamys even for a few months, perhaps her head wouldn’t ache so much.

‘It will be a just punishment for you.’ Mrs Bellamy obviously hated the country. ‘You will have to put up with horrid smells and uncouth people. There will be no polite society and no drains. And in any case your condition will be obvious. You will be in disgrace and ostracized by all decent people. It serves you right.’

‘Yes, Mrs Bellamy,’ Emma whispered. She would try to pack a few books in her luggage. She had not yet begun to think about the baby; such thoughts were pushed away.

For the next few days Sally had no time at all to think of Roman soldiers. The old farmhouse dairy echoed with the swish, thump of the butter churn as she made batch after batch of butter. It took her most of a morning: skimming the cream off the top of the milk, churning in the big barrel churn, washing and pressing the granules together and finally – the best part – shaping each lump of butter into a perfect, rectangular brick with the badger pattern on the top.

The weather continued to be fine and while Sally made butter, George finished shearing the Motley Flock, with dear Martha helping to wrap the fleeces. Afterwards they sat in Sally’s kitchen, eating thick slices of Martha’s fresh crusty loaf with some of Sally’s plum jam. It was the first bread Sally had eaten for a week and she was ravenous. Oatcakes made with stale corn were now her main diet, but they were not the same as bread.

However, they wouldn’t eat the butter.’Nay, you’ll need to sell it all!’ Martha had inspected the butter and approved of it. ‘It should sell well, you’ve done a good job. Your mother always said you were a good little dairy worker!’

George grinned across the table, satisfied with his day’s work. ‘Now Martha lass, where’s that gooseberry pie you promised?’

‘Here it is. Well, those sheep’ll be glad to get their wool off. Weather’s warming up. I just hope we don’t get a storm.’

After milking that night Sally went down the gill to see her
beloved sheep, unfamiliar now without their wool, although quite plump and well fed. They gathered round the bucket as usual and she noticed that the lambs were learning the same behaviour. About half the lambs were females. ‘And I think I’ll keep you girls, if you behave yourselves!’ Sally told them. ‘We’ll have a bigger Motley Flock next year and more lambs.’ She sighed, remembering that all the lambs should really be sold to help to pay the rent.

Thursday dawned without the dreaded storm, cool and cloudy. Summers on the High Side were generally cool, with a slight breeze off the moor on even the hottest day. Thorpe was on a windy ridge with valleys at either side, but in the west there was a long line of moorland on the horizon, turning purple with heather in the late summer and white with snow in the winter. Sally knew that they were farming on the edge: any higher up the hill and the soils were too poor for a dairy. Ripon was a different climate, soft and sheltered in the Ure valley, the huge old trees indicating the depth of soil. But the High Side farmers had to compete down in Ripon with those who had life easier.

As Sally drove the trap carefully down the Ripon road the sun came out and she could feel the heat increasing, the warmer air coming to meet them as they went downhill. With her unruly red hair tied back with a ribbon and a clean cotton dress of light blue, Sally felt like a different person from the girl in the grey shawl. True, she’d lost weight and the frock was a little too big for her, but it was quite pretty and more feminine than any of her farm clothes. Perhaps she should stop worrying just for today and enjoy the change of scene. But that was impossible at the moment. There was too much at stake.

Martha sat beside Sally, glancing from time to time at the butter baskets. They were covered with cool cabbage leaves, which was all they could do to protect them. The butter was firm and chilled, kept on marble slabs in the dairy to cool it down as much as possible. Slowly, Jed the pony picked his way down the hill near Sutton.

‘It’s a long time since I stood in the market to sell,’ Sally admitted to Martha. ‘The eggs are easy, Thorpe folks come to the door for them and I have regular orders in the village. It’s the same with milk, if there’s any to spare. The cheese is collected – so there’s only butter to sell in Ripon.’

‘Well, there’ll be lambs to go to market in a few months and maybe some of the calves. George will help you find a buyer and he says prices are quite good this year.’ Martha sounded reassuring but once again, Sally felt the weight of the farm on her shoulders. There was a lot to think about.

A pheasant crossed the road and the young pony shied slightly. ‘Hey, Jed! Steady!’ Martha grasped the sides of the trap firmly, but said nothing.

‘He tries hard, this horse, but he has a lot to learn,’ explained Sally, as Martha readjusted her bonnet and smoothed her grey dress. ‘Father used to manage him better than I can.’

‘How do you know when a horse is trying?’ Martha enquired, but Sally couldn’t explain herself. She just knew sometimes what animals were thinking.

In spite of her worries Sally felt a lightening of the heart when they reached Ripon and unyoked in Wells’ Garth, as her father had always done on market day. Farmers could leave their traps in the Garth and their horses in the nearby stables. A narrow ‘ginnel’ led straight out to the large market square, dominated by the imposing Town Hall. You couldn’t see the square itself for the mass of stalls, people and produce. In the very middle was a tall obelisk with a horn on the top, the badge of Ripon. That was where butter was sold; other towns had their butter cross, but Ripon had the Wakeman’s Horn.

The women had to push their way through the crowd to reach the stone butter benches. It was good to be back for a while in the bustle of the town, a quiet cathedral city for the most part, but a place that came alive every Thursday when the market was held. ‘I sometimes think that folks come here more for the gossip than anything!’ Martha was watching two women avidly listening to a third.

Sally was not in a hurry, just for once. People bought their butter later, after the other groceries, to sit on top of the basket as they went home. The morning was very warm. When they reached the square Sally took off her jacket and draped it over the baskets. She was sorry that the shady side was already taken. The baskets were heavy and Martha was obviously pleased to put hers down. Sally was used to heavy weights but even so, she stretched with relief as they looked around.

Martha offered to stay with the baskets while Sally walked through the market place. She had no money to spend, but it was good to see the amazing variety and to know that you could buy almost anything on Ripon market. Martha went off next, taking her string bag. The day grew warmer and the High Side farmers were mopping their faces with big handkerchiefs. ‘Hottest day for years!’ one neighbour said to her, with a kindly smile. Too hot for the butter, maybe. Sally lifted the cabbage leaves and saw that the bricks were very soft, almost slumping. Oh somebody, please buy my butter soon!

Robin’s mother came by and stopped for a chat, a cheerful woman with a lot to be cheerful about. She had three wonderful sons, a doting husband and plenty of help in the house. She probably didn’t know what it was to be really tired, Sally thought enviously.

‘Dear me, Sally, it’s a bad day to sell butter!’ Mrs Scott could see the problem at once. ‘But never mind, next week will probably be quite cold. We hope to see you on Sunday after Evensong – Robin asked you?’ The Scotts, unlike the Masons, often had time to go to church.

‘Thank you, it’s kind of you.’

If only a cool breeze would come in from the North Sea … but the air was still and the heat increased as the day wore on. It was obvious, Sally thought after an hour or so of crowds sweeping by ignoring her, that nobody wanted to buy butter on a very hot day. The townsfolk could easily get some at the grocer’s any day of the week. High Side butter was superior, they all agreed, but not if it was too soft. It might spoil the other groceries in their basket; best leave it for today. She had no regular customers who might be loyal to Sally Mason through good weather and bad. When Badger’s Gill butter was on sale regularly – her mother had tried to sell every fortnight – there were Ripon folk who looked out for her and always bought from her. But that was in the past and those customers had gone.