Bitter Inheritance (8 page)

A few apples were needed to bring out the flavour of the blackberries. Sally went to the pantry, where her apples were laid out in rows on the shelves. She stretched up to take one and heard a knock on the door.

Uncle Samuel’s booming parson’s voice left Sally in no doubt as
to what would happen next. Aunt Bertha swept into the kitchen, trailing rugs and threw her arms round Sally, recoiling as she realized that blackberry juice would stain her coat. Sally’s uncle followed, calling a greeting and Jones took the trap into the farmyard, where he managed to terrify the geese. The old dog barked and the peace of the afternoon was gone. But that was only the beginning.

Hurriedly taking off her apron and washing her sticky hands, Sally led the visitors into the parlour where she had a small fire, mainly to keep the books from getting damp. She was glad that the furniture was dusted and the room was tidy. The visit already had the feeling of an inspection.

‘You know why we are here, of course?’ Bertha’s eyes were darting round the room, lingering on the piano, which was a good one and positively feasting on the little corner cabinet in which Sally’s mother had kept her china.

‘But Aunt, I’ve already said that I want to stay here.’

‘You can’t afford to stay here, my sweet! You have very little income.’ The voice, powerful and sugary at the same time, echoed round the room and down the hall.

Sally couldn’t get a word in, as her aunt took the floor and told her how her future was going to be. ‘You will come to live with us as soon as it can be arranged, my dear girl, for your own good, as we agreed when you visited us in summer. Your room is ready. We are waiting to welcome you with open arms!’ There was a dramatic pause and a reply seemed to be expected, but Sally was speechless. How dare she! They had agreed on nothing!

Bertha whipped out a tape measure from her bag and measured the cabinet. ‘This will go nicely in my drawing-room.’ She smiled and turned back to the matter in hand. ‘Now, Sally, you must defer to our experience, you know. There is danger here. Your reputation could be compromised, my dear, by living alone, young as you are. What if some young man quite innocently called at the farm? There would be gossip about you immediately and as a clergyman, your uncle cannot allow that sort of thing to happen. Sally, my dear, we think only of you!’ Bertha paused for breath, bosom heaving. ‘Just look at you, like a scullery maid in a dirty apron, you poor child! This is not the life for you. You need to be living more
as a young lady should. At the vicarage, we have a maid for such rough work as this!’ Her aunt waved a hand through the door at the jam, which was in danger of boiling over.

Thankful for a diversion, Sally dashed back into the kitchen to attend to the jam, her face crimson with suppressed rage. Was it the red hair that made her feel such emotion? Sally had often wondered what she would have been like with dark hair and a calm disposition. She pulled the jam off the stove and went back dutifully to her guests.

‘I realize that the animals will have to be sold and the landlord informed that you are leaving. But I have arranged for a carrier to call next week, to remove such items of furniture as we will require at the vicarage. Please don’t look so alarmed, dear Sally. This is all for your own good, no thought for us at all.’

‘But I’m not….’ wailed Sally.

Bertha rolled on, inexorably: ‘Of course, we will leave dear Robert’s furniture to you, in our wills, so you will eventually inherit. Watson the auctioneer can sell the rest, when the farm animals are sold. I have already been to see him about it. He will deduct his costs from the proceeds of the sale and give the remainder to your uncle, to invest for you.’

‘He what?’ Anyone would think she was simple, unable to look after her own affairs. Sally turned to Uncle Samuel, who had the grace to look uncomfortable.

‘And now, I need to measure the dining-table,’ Bertha announced majestically, drawing the tape measure from her bag once more. She made for the dining-room door.

Sally flew across the hall. ‘No! Don’t go in there, it’s private!’

Ignoring Sally, Bertha swept into the dining-room and the first thing she saw was the fire, blazing merrily. ‘What extravagance! Surely, my sweet, you don’t need a fire….’ her voice died away as she saw Miss Wakefield, sitting with a straight back at the table, primly sewing.

‘Who may this young person be?’ Bertha demanded. Samuel shrank back in the doorway as his wife surveyed the young person from head to foot, taking in the obvious pregnancy – and the ringless left hand. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ For once the sugary tones were forgotten and Bertha’s voice was hard. 

Sally stood in front of Emma as if to protect her from Aunt Bertha. ‘Miss Wakefield is staying with me, for the present. So you see, Aunt, I’m not alone in the house.’

Bertha sat down suddenly on a dining-chair, as if overwhelmed. ‘Miss! Miss! A fallen woman! You have taken into your house a fallen woman! We will never live this down – never! You have disgraced us all. Sally Mason, you are not fit to organize your own affairs, this is proof of your folly! Get rid of this female immediately and come to Ripon with us tonight!’ She fanned herself with a handkerchief.

Sally was nearly fainting from a combination of rage and horror. She felt the blood drain from her face as she opened her mouth to defend her guest.

Miss Wakefield stood up, quite composed. Her young face was also hard as she looked at Bertha. ‘Please do not speak to Miss Mason like that, whoever you are. She has been most kind to me, have you not, Miss Mason?’

This was so unlike Miss Wakefield that Sally paused.

‘But obviously you are with child – Miss Wakefield. Putting yourself forward in the presence of decent folk! Who are you to talk to me, girl?’ Bertha quivered with indignation.

‘What do you know, that you accuse us so unjustly? My name is Emma Wakefield and I am not immoral. I was a victim. I was raped. Forced against my will, and got with child.’ Emma spoke simply, staring at Bertha. ‘I cannot allow you to blame Miss Mason, or me, for anything. I am staying here quietly until my time is over, and I will thank you to go away and leave us alone. I am not going to be a victim any more.’ She went quietly to stand by Sally. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing some of what you said. The financial arrangements between us are private, but I can tell you that Miss Mason can afford to stay here. And obviously, she should be allowed to make up her own mind.’ Emma walked out and they heard her going upstairs in the horrified silence that followed.

‘Well, Sally, perhaps we should leave you in peace. You seem to have solved at least some of your problems!’ Her uncle looked over his glasses at his niece, obviously glad that the crisis was over.

Sally managed to find her voice. ‘Thank you, Uncle Samuel.
I’m grateful for your concern for me, but I can manage and I want to stay here.’

Her uncle looked relieved, but Bertha was not. ‘I am most upset that our offer of a roof over your head has been rejected. And I am very concerned that you are not living the life of a lady. And now, we shall have to find another maid. It is all very vexing.’ She sobbed a little.

Uncle Samuel tried to calm his wife down and Sally went into the kitchen to make them a pot of tea. Aunt Bertha admired the old china cups, but sadly, as though beaten. Sally thought she would find it hard to give up the dining-table, even if she could live without her niece. Slowly, the atmosphere returned to near normal and soon the visitors decided that it was getting late and they ought to go home. While Jeremiah Jones was bringing round the horse, Sally cornered her uncle in the hall. ‘Please will you tell the carrier not to come and cancel the auctioneer? I hope you won’t be offended, Uncle, but I’m staying at Thorpe.’

Uncle Samuel gave her a brief hug. ‘I know. How like your mother you are, Sally.’

The ordeal was over and Sally had won – with the help of her little friend. Emma’s change of character was amazing. Sally was left feeling limp by the visit, but she felt a deep gladness that her paying guest had shown a human, caring side.

Emma Wakefield sat on her bed weeping tears of relief. After all this time, feeling was coming back to her. The person she used to be was returning as if from a long journey. Feeling meant pain, but it was better than the terrible ice. To speak out, after months, years of silence, had lifted a weight from her, had somehow freed her from the worst of the memory of what had happened. The admission that she’d been raped and was innocent had been instinctive, to help Sally. Emma had listened with horror to Bertha’s booming voice telling Sally what she must do and it reminded her of her own experience at the Bellamys’ house.

Emma had been too young to defy her guardians, being brought up to be dutiful to one’s elders. And she had only dimly realized that they had taken her in, not in charity but so that they could get their hands on the property she’d inherited. She’d been determined not to let them know what had really happened. But she had been living with the Bellamys for over two years and the lack of any real warmth or fellow feeling had made her withdraw into herself.

Sally had been a surprise, prepared as Emma was for a grim Miss Mason. Emma hadn’t known how to react. But the habit of silence and keeping a distance had frozen her feelings, and she’d deliberately kept Sally away. Until recently, Emma had thought that she was there on sufferance, only because of the money, just as she’d been in Sheffield. Sally was much nicer than Mrs Bellamy, of course. But Emma hadn’t realized that Sally, too, had her own problems. Not until now.

Emma felt that she’d matured these last few weeks, without
realizing it. She had started to look at things from Sally’s point of view. Badger’s Gill had already done her good. There had been no harsh words, no frigid silences; just the peace of this old house and healing walks in the lovely countryside. Gradually, she had allowed herself to relax. And although she’d kept Sally at arm’s length, the warmth of her host’s personality had gradually melted the ice in Emma’s soul.

When Sally tapped hesitantly on her door, Emma dried her eyes and put on her coat. She stepped on to the landing and smiled at Sally’s anxious expression. There was no turning back; Emma took a deep breath and moved into the future. ‘Will you have you the time to come for a walk with me?’

Emma felt rewarded; the anxiety vanished and Sally’s face was lit by a radiant smile. ‘We’ll have to hurry up, the sun’s going down. Shall we go to collect the cows for milking?’

The two girls walked down the green lane towards the river. From a thorn bush, a robin piped his evening song. They could hear the distant cawing of homing rooks and see them dark against the sky. They walked slowly, because Emma was now heavy and awkward. Nothing was said for a while and then Sally turned to Emma. ‘Thank you so much for saying what you did this afternoon. It must have been very difficult for you. But it certainly stopped my aunt in her tracks!’ She laughed, a clear happy laugh that set Emma smiling.

It was hard to break the habit of over two years, but Emma knew she had to do it. ‘Yes, Sally, but it was time for me to stop being so selfish! It must have been difficult for you, dealing with me when you have nobody else to talk to. But I’ve had plenty of time to think as I’ve been sewing.’

The cows were waiting at the gate ready to come in and Sally let them through into the lane. ‘Come on girls, hurry up! Joe’s waiting for you.’ Emma stood behind Sally, afraid of closer contact with the cattle. They looked so big! When the cows were plodding up the lane Sally said quietly, ‘You’ve had a dreadful time and I think your, er, reserve has been due to that. I understand now, how you’ve been feeling.’ She closed the gate and rejoined Emma.

‘My problem has really been that nobody thinks I should keep the farm going by myself. My father died, you see. And I don’t
know where he left our money, if there is any. Of course most people think that women are not able to run a farm on their own.’

Emma nodded, but said nothing.

‘Your coming here made all the difference, Emma. With your money I was able to hire Joe to work for me and we bought more cows. I was almost desperate just before you came. It was true what people said, the work was too much for me. Too heavy.’ She could admit it, now that a solution had been found.

‘And is everything now going well, Sally?’

‘Well, there are still big problems. The farm is now owned by someone else and he’s trying to get rid of me.’

Emma stood still in the lane, wanting a rest as they were walking uphill. Sally still had troubles, that was obvious. But she felt amazed that anything she did could help anybody, even by default. ‘I’d like to help you more, if I can. Obviously I can’t do much at the moment, although I feel much healthier, since you persuaded me to walk and to eat the right foods. You’ve done me a lot of good, Sally.’

The next big hurdle was the birth and Emma was afraid. At school, she’d heard horror stories about women in childbirth, although the stories were whispered behind closed doors. No teacher ever mentioned such things, or allowed discussion of the human body and its development. But Sally was a farmer, she would probably know about it. The twilight deepened and the evening air was cold. Emma shivered under her coat.

‘Well, we could be friends. Let’s eat some of our meals together, and I’d like you to come into the parlour sometimes,’ said Sally firmly. ‘You can look through my books and – do you like music? I haven’t played the piano since Father died, but we used to love music.’

Emma thought that Sally’s face changed expression so quickly, it was hard to keep up with her; she went from eagerness to sadness in a moment. It must have been hard for her, tired by gruelling farm work and living alone.

‘I used to play and sing when I lived at home. My parents died, too, both together, in a boating accident at Scarborough. But at the Bellamys I was never allowed to speak of them. And of course there was no music in that house.’

Sally shook her head and Emma felt that she understood how barren her life had become.

The cows went into the milking shed, each one to her accustomed place. How did they know where to go? Joe tied them, gently putting a chain around the neck and soon the shed was full of the sound of munching as the cows ate their evening hay. Emma lingered by the door, watching them. There was something soothing about contented cattle. In time, she thought, she might lose her fear of animals.

That evening Emma was happier than she’d been for years, even though the birth was still looming. Sally put some logs on the sitting-room fire and they looked at books and leafed through music. And Emma surprised herself by sitting at the piano and playing a simple piece from memory. It was strange to be a person again, not an outcast. And not to be whipped. Perhaps she’d left that behind, forever.

The weeks went by quickly as the days shortened. The factor called to buy Sally’s cheeses and pronounced them excellent, which was a source of pride. The cheese money was put in the Penny Bank.

One morning, Sally came into the kitchen full of determination. ‘I would like you to come with me over the green to have a cup of tea with Martha, Mrs Dawson.’ She glanced at Emma, to see the effect of this drastic proposal.

Sally had several reasons for the visit. Emma needed a change of scene, since the weather had kept her in the house for a week. And also Martha might be needed to help with the baby, and Emma had only met her very briefly once or twice.

‘Thank you, I know you mean well. But I’m very shy, especially….’ She looked down self-consciously. ‘It’s so long since I met anyone.’

‘Exactly. It’s time you did. Now, Martha’s had children and grandchildren and she’s a great friend. Get your coat, Emma, we’ll go now.’ I’m getting very bossy, Sally thought to herself as she pulled on her boots. It must be all the responsibility; just like Mama’s schoolteacher ways.

A light powdering of snow had fallen on Thorpe, etching the
houses and trees with delicate white. Part of the pond was frozen, but there was still water for the ducks to swim. The village was enjoying a quiet morning as the two crossed over to where Martha and George lived.

‘Doesn’t Thorpe look pretty in the snow? We skate on the pond when it really freezes over.’ Sally remembered skating with Robin in their carefree childhood days.

Sally looked at Emma as they got to the door and saw that the girl was trembling slightly, either from fear or the cold. ‘We won’t stay long. And George is away delivering turnips, I saw him go down the Ripon road. So there’s only Martha here. Don’t be shy, lass!’

To Sally’s relief, the visit went well. Martha offered sensible advice, from her own experience, about pregnancy and Emma’s composure soon came back. In some ways Emma seemed such a child and yet she’d shown amazing maturity, standing up to Aunt Bertha. Sally smiled as she thought about it.

‘You’ll have spring-cleaned the bedroom, I expect?’ Martha peered over her glasses and Sally felt young and inexperienced, faced with one of the greatest of life’s emergencies. ‘And you’ve got a rubber sheet and plenty of big jugs for boiled water, and a lot of towels? These days they say you should boil all the towels and such and leave them in a bag, to keep out the infection. Germs, I think they call them.’

Emma’s pale face went even whiter and Sally tried to jolly her along. ‘It’s only a natural process, after all! And with me and Martha to look after you, and the doctor when we need him, there’s nothing to worry about. We’ve got a washstand in the room, of course and we have a little table that the doctor said would be good for the ether apparatus.’ In the circumstances Sally didn’t like to mention the baby, and Emma seemed indifferent to it, but they had a few baby clothes ready for the new arrival.

Sally began to feel a little less anxious; Emma was not going to be a problem. But she still had the Radfords at the back of her mind and she was forming a plan of attack. There had been no reply to Sally’s letter to her landlord and weeks had gone by. ‘I’m worried about it,’ she confessed to Martha. ‘Heaven knows what Sol is telling him. I really think that I must go over to see Mr
Radford very soon. If I can tell him what we’re doing with the farm face to face, he might see reason. But – I don’t like to leave Emma, she’s due any day now.’

Martha cleared the teacups and said gently, ‘Well, now Emma knows me, I can keep an eye on her. I’ll pop in during the day. Isn’t that right, lass?’

Emma smiled her thanks. ‘Don’t worry, Sally, I will be quite safe with Martha calling in.’

‘And,’ Martha continued, ‘George ought to go with you. It’s a long way to Radford’s and the weather’s uncertain. It could snow again and you know what the moor’s like: deep drifts, and they don’t find you until spring!’ Again the grim moorland smile.

‘George might be needed to fetch the doctor from Kirkby,’ Sally reminded her. ‘It’s only two miles, but that’s a long way in an emergency.’ She was quite determined to go the next day. There was very little snow after all, and Jed the horse was quite used to winter conditions. Better to get it over with, before Emma’s baby arrived.

Back at the farm, Sally told Joe what she intended to do. He leaned on his shovel, not so shy now and even more likely to give advice. ‘My, that’s a long way! Nearly to Pateley. It’s more than ten mile off, I reckon, where Mr Radford lives.’

‘Tell me how to get there, Joe.’

‘Nay, miss, weather’s none too good. Er – would you like me to drive you?’

Sally shook her red curls. ‘Joe, you’ll have to milk the cows and if I’m not back in time, feed the sheep and the poultry. Can you pour the milk into the setting pans for me?’

Joe nodded, somewhat reluctantly. Then he put down his shovel and bustled off. Five minutes later, the trap was out in the yard, being given a clean and polish. The brass lamps were buffed. Jed was thoroughly groomed; Jed was a good-looking animal, with a chestnut coat that shone because Joe often slipped him a few extra oats.

The process took a long time; even the harness was treated with neatsfoot oil. Sally had tried to keep the outfit reasonably clean and the harness was always oiled as a safety measure to keep it from cracking, but it obviously wasn’t up to Joe’s standard. 

Seeing all this activity, Sally realized that Joe was right. People judged you by how you looked and a smart pony and trap would imply a tidy farm. And as Joe kept reminding her, ‘A tidy farm’s a prosperous farm.’ She would wear her good coat and gloves and she and Jed would make an early start. It was good to look smart, but as Emma pointed out, it was bound to be cold on the moor. ‘I’ll wear the old driving cape of Father’s and my good coat underneath,’ Sally decided.

The long-awaited letter arrived the next day and it made Sally even more determined to pay a visit to her landlord. She only hoped she wouldn’t fizz too much when they came face to face.

In spite of her anger Sally smiled grimly at this letter. Mr Oliver Radford seemed to take a perverse pleasure in writing the most hostile and offensive letter that he possibly could devise, unless it were written with a stark humour. Some of the High Side characters had just that kind of mind. The spiky black writing, jabbed on to the page, drove the point home.