Bitter Inheritance (6 page)

‘I’m not quite sure,’ Emma stammered. She wasn’t going to tell
them everything, although they’d be bound to find out before long. The women rolled their eyes at each other, but they left her alone.

Rain still threatened but they got to Thorpe before it arrived, jogging through some pretty countryside, climbing all the time out of the plain, heading towards the purple line of moors.

Thorpe, when eventually reached, was built of stone: the houses, the walls and the barns were all stone, some a sunny yellowish colour and others dark grey and rather forbidding. Houses and cottages were grouped round a village green, which had a rather large pond. Fields rose steeply at the backs of the houses beyond the green at one side and the street wound uphill and narrowed, presumably to more houses and perhaps a church.

‘Put me down on the green, please,’ Emma asked firmly. And when the horses jogged off, she felt another wave of loneliness. There was no one about, nothing on the street except some ducks heading for the pond. Badger’s Gill was supposed to be near the pond, so Emma followed the ducks.

The house was easy to find, standing foursquare to the street with a tiny metal badger on the garden gate. Emma went up the path slowly and forced herself to knock on the big front door. Nothing happened. The loud knock sounded hollow, as though the place was empty. She timidly pushed open the door and saw her trunk standing in the hall. This was the right place, then. Where was Miss Mason? There was a clatter of hooves and the creak of a cart, somewhere out of sight. Emma went round the house and saw a procession coming into the farmyard: country people doing farm work. ‘It’s going to rain, we did well to get the last load!’ An older woman smiled at a young red-headed girl, who was riding on top of a load of hay. A girl on a load of hay!

‘Just time to stack it in the barn before milking time.’ The two men with them agreed and the horse was led into the stone barn. Emma could hear jokes and laughter as the workers unloaded the hay. Why were they so cheerful? Especially when the drizzle started. Why would they be pleased to see rain?

After a few minutes, Emma thought she should go to ask for Miss Mason. Peeping round the barn door she was immediately spotted by the young woman, who came towards her with a wide
smile. ‘Emma Jane Wakefield? So you’ve got here at last. Was it a good journey? If you can wait a few minutes, I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

Emma decided to wait until later to ask about Miss Mason.

‘Martha, pull the fire together there’s a dear, and put the kettle on!’ The red-haired girl led the horse out of the barn and unyoked.

A peasant, she must be, thought Emma.

‘Come with me, my dear!’ Martha sounded kind as she steered Emma towards the kitchen.

Feeling small and pale beside this vigorous woman, Emma drew back. ‘I’m not supposed to go in the kitchen. I might get in the way. Mrs Bellamy said I was to stay in the dining-room.’

Martha raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, suit yourself, lass. You’ll be ready for a cup of tea, any road.’

Laughter and conversation continued in the kitchen. The rain beat on the windows and Emma sat on a dining-chair with her back straight, until the girl brought her a cup of tea and a big scone. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t get much of a welcome, but we’re just finishing the hay – and we’ve beaten the rain! That’s important on a farm. We need rain for the pastures now, you see. So we’re happy.’

‘Yes.’ Emma took a sip of tea. She did not see.

‘Now Emma Jane, don’t be shy. You’ve had a difficult time, I’m sure,’ the pleasant voice went on. ‘But we want you to enjoy your time here.’

‘I’m not here to enjoy anything.’ It seemed safest to stick to her instructions; no good being friendly with this girl, it could get her into trouble with Miss Mason.

The redhead laughed and called into the kitchen. ‘George, Robin, will you come and carry this trunk upstairs, please? Emma Jane will feel better when she’s settled in.’

The trunk was wafted upstairs immediately. The young man called Robin gave Emma a friendly smile as he passed her, but she looked at him stonily. It could get her into trouble if she smiled at anyone.

The tea was hot and refreshing and the scone was very rich, with plenty of currants. It was smothered with deep yellow butter
and Emma, who had not eaten since leaving Sheffield, found to her surprise that she could eat it all.

‘I’m Sally,’ the redhead explained, ‘and Martha and George have helped me with the hay … and Robin came to cart it in for me. Now, Emma Jane … do you have a shorter form of your name?’

‘I’m usually Miss Wakefield.’ It was one of the Rules that her Christian name should not be used.

This Sally looked so healthy! Her blue eyes shone and her face was browner than was fashionable, but most attractive. Emma was conscious of her own pasty complexion and dull, lank brown hair.

‘You poor lass, to come such a long way on your own! But never fear, we’ll look after you. We can help each other, you know.’ The blue eyes looked at her with compassion.

Emma turned away, the tears welling up, tears she’d sworn not to shed. People couldn’t hurt her by unkindness, but sympathy was making her cry! She must keep her distance. ‘I don’t think so.’ Emma kept her voice cold and hard. ‘And now if you please, I am to report to Miss Mason. Where is she?’

Sally’s laugh rang out. ‘I’m so sorry! I’m Sally Mason, there isn’t another Miss Mason! You’ll have to put up with me!’

‘You! Miss Mason?’ Emma was shocked. True, the girl spoke reasonably well, but she looked like a farm woman. Not like the head of a household. ‘There must be some mistake!’

‘No, your people arranged it all with me. You’re to stay here until … for a few months. Now, there were pages of Rules with a capital R, instructions on how you should be treated, but I don’t intend to bother with them. We can please ourselves here in Thorpe. Make our own rules!’

The blue eyes were pleading. Why should this girl want to be friends? Emma stood up. ‘I feel it will be better to stick to the rules, Miss Mason. Please show me to my room. I wish to unpack my things.’

In the trunk, Emma found a package addressed to Miss Mason. When she’d finished putting her clothes away, she took it downstairs. She’d better hand it over at once, in case she was accused of stealing. That was the way she had come to think. It was also time to explain what the Rules were, in case Miss Mason had not read
them properly. Emma was quite clear about them; she was to stay out of the kitchen, indoors in the dining-room, and do sewing for Miss Mason, who would make sure she had plenty of work. She was to clean her bedroom and the dining-room. She was to speak to nobody outside the household. And that was all, except for church on Sunday. There was nothing in the Rules about punishment. She was hoping not to be whipped or beaten, but she couldn’t count on it.

Martha heard Emma reciting the Rules, as Sally opened the package. They were standing in the hall. ‘That’s daft, you look as if a bit of fresh air would do you good. And some company, if I’m any judge! You don’t want to shut yourself away.’

Emma looked at her critically. What did this old woman have to do with it?

Sally looked up from untying the many knots and seals on the package. ‘I had hoped we would be company for each other,’ she said softly. She seemed genuinely disappointed.

This was strange. Why would anybody want Emma Wakefield for a companion? ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’ Emma turned on her heel and marched upstairs, before they saw the hot tears on her face.

‘Well!’ Sally sat down suddenly at the kitchen table. ‘Another cup of tea, please!’ She was looking at the package. ‘They’ve sent me the whole amount – all the money for four months’ board, all at once!’

This was going to solve a lot of problems. They could buy some sheep in the autumn sales, for a start. Hopes of finding the Motley Flock and buying them back had faded, but the farm needed sheep, as part of the rotation of grazing. And maybe she could hire some help.

Martha beamed. ‘And so they should! It’s not going to be easy, my girl.’

Sally shrugged. ‘She’ll come round, I’m sure. She’s got problems, though. Must have been treated very badly….’

‘Downtrodden, if you ask me.’ Robin spoke unexpectedly. ‘If you want my scientific diagnosis, only if you want it, mind, she’s been kept down so long that it’ll take her a long time to get back to normal. Another cup for me too, please!’

‘She’s only sixteen and she looks younger, although she speaks like some old bird of forty.’

‘And she flinches when I look at her. Poor lass!’ Robin held out his cup.

‘Just think, Sally,’ Martha was beaming, ‘if the money is there you can go and get help—’

‘Old Joe Marsh, just as Ma suggested!’ Robin chipped in.

‘That’s fine. But how should I deal with – Miss Wakefield?’ Sally felt inadequate, faced with this – child, she seemed – who was so much more complicated than her beloved cows and sheep.

Robin stood up. ‘I’d better be off, but I know what my Ma would say. It’s a commercial arrangement, Sally. You don’t have to take this person into your life. Let her stay in the dining-room and get on with your own affairs.’

When he had gone, Sally looked across the table at Martha. ‘But that poor girl! She’ll surely need some help, before we’re through.’

Martha sighed. ‘Don’t worry about that just now. I think I agree with Robin. My cousin in Ripon, now, she takes in lodgers in a respectable sort of way. She has a gentleman in the front room, you see. Takes his meals there, has a bed there. Goes out to work every day and sings in the church choir on Sundays, at your Uncle Samuel’s church, Sally. But Mr White never comes into her part of the house. They live separate lives. And it’s the best way to be.’

Sally was still worried. ‘It’s different for a man, perhaps. But what about a young lass, about to have a baby and all on her own? She hasn’t got a life of her own. And she doesn’t look at all a bad sort of girl, to me. Just very young, somehow.’

Martha agreed. ‘I was surprised to see how young and pale she looks. Most lasses in trouble as I’ve known them have been bold and bonny, maybe matured early. They’ve fallen for a handsome face and had a fling, then paid for it later. That lass has never had a fling. You can tell by looking at her. That’s another type, entirely.’

They looked at each other and George went out. ‘Got to feed the stock,’ he muttered. ‘Had enough of women’s talk!’ But he winked at Sally as he went through the door.

‘If she hasn’t had a fling,’ Sally spoke slowly, ‘that means….’

‘That she was forced.’ Martha’s mouth set in a straight line. ‘If you ask me, that little lass has been taken advantage of. But the woman allus takes the blame.’

Before she went home, Martha washed the tea things; Sally had already gone to milk the cows. Looking into the cowshed on her way out, the older woman suggested that Sally should call in a doctor.

To her surprise, Miss Wakefield agreed to see a doctor the next morning. It was one of the Rules. ‘Mrs Bellamy said that I should see your doctor. For him to take responsibility for my health.’ She
sounded to Sally like a little parrot. She sat upright at the big dining-table, staring straight ahead, her swollen little body looking sadly amiss.

‘Well, I think we should all be responsible for our own health.’ Sally decided that she too could be dogmatic.

Luckily, Dr Bishop was a modern thinker and agreed with Sally. He summoned her into the dining-room after his examination of Miss Wakefield. He looked concerned, Sally thought, under the bracing manner. ‘Pregnancy is not an illness,’ the doctor began briskly. ‘In my opinion, this young lady needs fresh air and exercise.’ Miss Wakefield looked, even paler if anything. ‘But I can’t go outside. I never do, you see.’

‘Well, it’s time you did!’ Dr Bishop was just a little impatient.

‘I am frightened of animals!’ The brown eyes looked genuinely scared.

Sally felt about to fizz, but she controlled herself. ‘Emma Jane – Miss Wakefield – I can show you where to walk without meeting the cows. If you don’t care to go down the village street, there’s a green lane by the side of this house that leads you through the back of the farm, you can go right down to the river. You can pick flowers and listen to the birds!’

For a moment, Sally thought she saw a flicker of feeling in the girl’s face. ‘Just as I did when Mama took me to Ilkley, a long time ago.’

The doctor pronounced Miss Wakefield healthy enough, although rather under-developed for childbirth. And she appeared to be a little anaemic. ‘She should eat liver and black pudding,’ he said with a smile.

Sally was surprised at the efficient way her lodger set about sewing. All the household mending, long neglected, was soon being attended to and the standard was high, better than Sally could achieve. When a week had gone by Sally decided to tempt the guest out of doors. It was a fine day and Miss Wakefield donned a large bonnet and gloves, at which Sally repressed a smile. She agreed to borrow some boots, in case her shoes got muddy. But the green lane was enclosed, safe and full of summer flowers. The next day Miss Wakefield agreed to go by herself.

The walks and fresh air had a noticeable effect; at the end of her first month at Badger’s Gill, Emma Wakefield was a different person. Her hair was fair and shining, her skin was clear and she seemed to be sleeping at night. But she still kept Sally at arm’s length and Martha said it was a good thing.

‘Why should you suffer, lass?’ Martha was protective of Sally, not wanting her to be too much involved with the guest’s sad story.

Casually, Sally left a few books in the dining-room for Emma to look at; some of them were books about birds and flowers and she was heartened to find that the girl took to them eagerly. The summer was fading into autumn, a pleasant time of year on the High Side. Above the village, the moors were purple with heather. It was hard to imagine life in a town, but Sally realized that this girl would not recognize the most common birds or wild flowers. Studying them might be good for her, to take her mind off her troubles.

The cows were in their slow progress to the milking shed one afternoon when Sally saw Sol Bartram waiting in the lane like a fat spider. Miss Wakefield was due to return from her walk and she came up to Sol just as the cows reached the shed. Sally pretended to go back for another cow and went by the hedge. She heard Sol clearly taunting the poor girl, who was walking slowly now, dragged down by the weight of her pregnancy.

‘Come to live in Thorpe with yer immoral ways, have you? We’ve no time here for the likes of you! And any road there won’t be a bed for you soon. Masons are out of the farm and onto the street, come quarter day!’

Miss Wakefield, head high, ignored him. She stalked past him and into the house.

‘How dare you speak to my guest like that!’ Sally was so angry that she forgot the power that Sol wielded.

The agent laughed. ‘You’re no better, encouraging fallen women! I’m going to tell Mr Radford about this, bringing his farm into disgrace. So much for the Mason family quality.’ He spat the words at her over the hedge.

‘What I do is no business of yours, Mr Bartram. Please go away.’ The cows were waiting outside the shed, long faces turned to her in slight annoyance. Their routine was being interrupted
and they did not approve.

‘Oh yes, it is!’ The agent’s voice rose to a shout. ‘I can tell yer landlord how bad weeds are at Badger’s Gill and what with neglected walls and fences – have you seen that wall down bottom slope? Mr Radford’s got to hear about this!’

The wall, inspected later, had indeed fallen down and there were huge gaps in the boundary. Fortunately there were no animals in the field. Sally knew the damage was recent and suspected Sol himself of inflicting it. So now she had walling to do as well as all the other jobs. Drystone walling was an ancient art that Sally would have loved to master, but the big boulders were too heavy for her to lift. She’d have to find another way.

‘That’s it. I’ll have to find Joe Marsh!’ Sally told the cows next morning as she milked.

Joe lived with his wife in a little cottage in a hollow on the Masham road, but he wasn’t at home. Walking back past the church Sally heard the sound of mowing and there was Joe, cutting the churchyard grass. He was a small man with the huge hands of a worker, batlike ears and a shy smile. Sally knew him by sight, but he’d never worked at the farm before. How would it go? The girl was nervous as she opened the churchyard gate.

‘Aye. I can come tomorrow, if you want.’ Joe was brief and to the point. ‘Pay me same as Scotts do, that’ll be right enough. How many days did you say?’ He lifted the old cap and scratched his head.

They agreed that Joe should work at Badger’s Gill for a week to start with and attend to all the jobs that Sally couldn’t manage. And Miss Wakefield’s money would pay his wages, for the moment at least. As she was leaving, Joe gave Sally a wry smile. ‘Well, miss, we’ll have to frame ourselves, that’s for sure. Sol Bartram is after your place and I’ve heard he means to get it.’

Sol was evidently as good as his word. Several days later, Sally received a letter in thick intimidating spiky writing on good quality paper. She could hardly believe her eyes.

Sally let out a howl of rage, then looked at the dining-room door. No doubt Miss Wakefield wouldn’t approve of such unladylike noises. ‘Just look at this! The villain! I can’t believe it!’ She choked back a sob. Sally felt crushed, as though someone had dealt her a physical blow. She leaned over the kitchen table speechlessly and passed the letter to Martha, who sat opposite. It was mid morning and they were drinking tea in the kitchen with autumn sun streaming through the window. Martha had called in on her way to deliver some vegetables. Joe Marsh sat beside her, quietly enjoying a brief respite from cleaning out the stables. Martha read the letter aloud, deliberately. There was a silence while they digested this new blow.

‘Poor lass! You’ve enough worry, without this!’ Martha was looking over her glasses with concern. ‘Is it – final, do you think?’ She looked at Joe.

‘Nay, never say die! If the old bugger knew the truth, sorry miss, he’d be only too pleased to let you stay! There’s nowt wrong with farm, nowt at all! The real villain is not Radford – it’s Sol Bartram.’

Sally was so angry she couldn’t keep still, couldn’t think straight. ‘Suitability of females! What a horrible man! No wonder the Masons quarrelled with such a family. But I’m going to fight him.’ The only problem was that she had no idea how to make such a man change his mind.

Joe stood up and pulled his cap down low. ‘Well, miss, I’d best get on. I reckon we’ve got a tidy farm here, there’s a good argument for staying.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘To tell the truth I’d like to help you, miss.’ Joe went to the door and seemed to struggle with emotion. He looked back at Sally. ‘It happened to me, back in ’63. Turned off of a farm, we were. Never got back. I’d like to see you stay at Badger’s Gill.’

Swallowing, Sally tried to smile at her helper. ‘Thank you, Joe. I appreciate it. It wasn’t Radford that turned you off, was it?’

Joe shook his head. ‘Nay, it were his Lordship. Him as lives up in London and only comes down for grouse shooting. But … it’s an old story.’ He sighed and stumped out.

By the time that Joe had been at Badger’s Gill for two months, all was neat and tidy. The stone boundary walls stood firm and the hedges had been trimmed. One field had been ploughed for spring corn. He was a slow, steady worker, economical in his movements, with long experience of farming. Joe never hurried, but he got through a great deal of work in a day. And best of all, he was another pair of hands. Sally now realized that she could not have carried on much longer without help.

The old farm worker had a shrewd turn of mind and he’d talked quietly about what might be done every time they stopped for a break. He was always respectful and insisted on calling Sally ‘miss’, but he let his opinion be known about how the farm should be run.

Sally had decided to be honest with Joe and tell him how matters stood. She explained about the paying guest. ‘So I’ve got this money for now, but when it’s gone I might not be able to pay you any more.’

Joe had scratched his head and looked at the ceiling and coughed politely. ‘Well, miss, why don’t we buy a few more cows with some of the money, and mebbe some more poultry? We could rear a few geese for Christmas. Farm could do with more
production, if you know what I mean.’