Feathers in the Fire (5 page)

‘Aye, Master. Her and Molly are lookin’ for Miss Jane; she didn’t come home to no supper.’

He bit tight down on his lip before asking, ‘Which way did they go?’

‘I don’t know, Master; they just went round ’n’ round the place callin’.’

Swiftly he made his way out of the yard and into the road. Then he crossed the fields almost at a run, leapt over a low stone wall, and made for The Ridge. He slipped as he scrambled up the steep path and when he reached the top he was gasping.

The evening sun was in his eyes and he put his hand to his brow and peered around him. Then he saw them, two small figures a good distance apart, his wife on the cow track above the malt house field, and further away the unmistakable figure of Molly running down towards the brook; he could not see his daughter. He left the top of the hill and took the curving path at a run, which he kept up across the fields. He could not remember running like this since he was a boy of fourteen.

Delia McBain had been looking for her daughter for the past hour and a half. She had started the search quietly. Rising from her outdoor couch, she had gone into the kitchen; she had asked Molly if she had seen Miss Jane and Molly had answered,
‘No, Mistress, not since this mornin’.’

As Delia had gazed at Molly she had for a moment forgotten that she was looking for her daughter, and had, in spite of this girl’s sinning, felt overcome with compassion for her. She herself had previously been quite unaware of the reason for ringing the bell; the sound of it had brought her swiftly from the dining room and she had asked Angus as he was crossing the hall, ‘What is the matter? What has happened? Why have you ordered the bell to be rung?’ and he had spoken to her over his shoulder as he went out, saying, ‘Come to the barn and you’ll soon find out.’

And having found out she then understood her husband’s reticence in speaking to her of the matter, for she knew him, in spite of her private knowledge of a certain facet of his character, to be a very moral man. But when she had seen him lift the whip to Molly something within her had become outraged. Those undercurrents in her apparently placid nature, which were known to no-one but herself, swept up through her in a torrent and almost escaped her lips in protest. She reminded herself only just in time that any protest of hers would appear as if she were censuring her husband, and would present a bad example to his people. She always thought of the workers as his people, not her people, but Angus’ people; she was no queen to his king, she had always been aware of her inferiority with regards to him, for Angus had a great mind, a cultured mind.

She herself came from a well-connected family. Her grandfather having once been a shipbuilder, that was before they brought the iron ships in, and if her father had not squandered his inheritance she would, no doubt, have never been allowed to marry a farmer, even such a one as Angus McBain. But penniless and living on the bounty of a cousin and having reached the age of twenty and no-one having as yet asked to marry her, the widower, the young, lean, stern-faced widower had appeared to both her and her cousin’s family like the answer to many prayers.

She had not loved Angus when she first married him, but in a very short time she had been consumed by her feelings for him, and it wasn’t until the fifth year of their marriage that there began the long, slow, dying of her love. He blamed her for the loss of each child. The third month of pregnancy was agony to her; as the blood flowed from her carrying away yet another of his frenzied efforts to make her body bear his son, she died afresh.

As the years wore on, and she sat in church, Sunday after Sunday, and heard him read the lesson with as much or more feeling than either Parson Hedley or Wainwright put into their readings, she began to contrast him with the man of the night, the man who tore at her body like a hungry lion at a doe. Yet she knew she must suffer this, as it was the lot of all women; men’s appetites must be satisfied. But the daring, probing part of her mind questioned God’s handiwork in combining in her husband His adherent and the wild beast of the night.

So her love died. But not her respect for his superior knowledge. He was well read. His office walls showed lines of books you might find in a library, and Sir Alfred Tuppin always referred to the office as the library, and never failed to admire her husband’s taste in literature when he called as he sometimes did after a meet. And what was more, both parsons respected his knowledge.

She found pleasure of an evening when Parson Hedley came to supper, and after the meal she sat with her handwork and listened to her husband and the minister discoursing on all subjects, lately about Disraeli, Parliament and the Queen. From their conversation she had visualised the Red Sea and the Mediterranean joined by a great canal. She had listened attentively to the discussion on a man called the Khedive. He was the ruler of Egypt and he had sold his shares in a canal called the Suez Canal to Mr Disraeli, at least Mr Disraeli had bought them for the Queen and the Empire. Of course neither her husband nor Parson Hedley agreed with all Mr Disraeli had done; they criticised him a great deal and were pleased when his Parliament fell. But they didn’t seem much happier with Mr Gladstone, who was now Prime Minister. Undoubtedly he was

a moral man, a righteous man, but he was, they said, swaying the people, the working man, and not, they both agreed, in the right direction.

They were very enlightening and enlivening evenings when the parson came to supper. When they had supper alone her husband never talked to her except upon household matters, or visits that had to be made. And if such a visit were to be special and to occur some little time in the future, he would advise her to plan for it and would give her the money to buy the material for a new gown.

For this purpose she loved the trips into Hexham, and twice over the years she had been as far as Newcastle. The shops in Newcastle had beautiful material, such an assortment; foreign silks straight from the boats, beautiful velvets of the gentlest hues. Her husband was generous when he wanted her to appear well dressed, and of late he had been more generous. When she was safely past her three months’ pregnancy he had given her twenty pounds and ordered Davie to drive her into Hexham, there to choose a material for a gown that she could wear during her last month. This she looked upon as a tender extravagance as it would have to be taken to pieces later and re-modelled.

She had never known such contentment as that which had filled her these past three months, all fear had dropped from her. She knew she would carry this child, and it was all due, she knew, to Mother Reckett. Why hadn’t she gone to the old woman years ago? She knew why; it was foolish to ask herself this question. When, after her second miscarriage, she had said to Angus, ‘There is an old woman called Mrs Reckett whom I understand makes up potions . . . ’ he had silenced her before she had got any further. Mother Reckett was a heathen, a woman with the evil eye. He wasn’t a superstitious man, he told her, but he knew that Mother Reckett possessed powers of evil; some people gave her credit for the power to cure animals, but she also had been given credit for bringing blight and disease to the land of many a man who had crossed her.

So for years she had resisted the temptation of consulting Mother Reckett, until desperation and a word from Mrs Swinterton, when taking tea with her at her house outside Haltwhistle, had supplied the courage. Mrs Swinterton was an old lady herself and had been a friend of the McBain family for years. She had expressed sorrow for her many miscarriages and suggested that, unknown to her husband, she sought help from Mother Reckett; and Mother Reckett had worked the miracle.

It was now eighteen months since she had taken her first bottle of medicine. It had been as clear as water and as bitter as gall, and she had drunk it as if it were nectar. Three doses a week she had taken for twelve months, and then the miracle had happened. For four years prior to this she hadn’t even conceived. At times she had longed to conceive even though it would mean carrying the child for only three months, for following a miscarriage Angus always let her body rest for some weeks.

Once she had conceived again Mother Reckett had changed the medicine to a thick substance that had a sweet acrid taste and which had to be taken by the teaspoonful three times a day. And so periodically she went for a walk over the moor. Angus was used to her taking long solitary walks, when she might be absent for three hours at a time, and so he had not questioned her journeyings. From her last visit to Mother Reckett’s cottage on the outskirts of Harper Town she had brought back enough medicine to last her until her time was up because her body was already heavy, and she was tiring very easily . . .

But here now was Molly, and she, too, was carrying a child, even if it was the product of sin, and this morning she had been whipped. She had the desire to go to her and comfort her. But Molly was apparently still suffering from the injustice of her treatment for she turned her head from her.

When she asked ‘Have you seen Miss Jane, Molly?’ Molly, still with her head down, muttered, ‘No, Mistress, not since dinner time, when she couldn’t have nothin’ to eat.’

‘Oh, but she was here well after that. It’s now close on seven. I’m worried; she seemed upset . . . ’ She did not go on and say, ‘The fact of you being whipped upset her; she did not do as her father bade her but witnessed the scene through the back of the barn,’ but added, ‘We’d better look for her. We’ll take the cow path to the burn, she may be there. You can run down; she is often at the burn because the foal is near.’

Molly dried her hands, then turned from the sink and said, ‘Master’s back, Mistress.’

‘Oh, I didn’t hear him. Is he in his office?’

‘Yes, Mistress, but Davie’s with him.’

‘Oh!’ Delia looked at the girl and thought she understood. It would be Davie. Of course it would. She had seen them together. But she was very disappointed in Davie; if he had come forward he could have saved this poor creature from being flayed; she had thought better of Winnie’s son. She liked Winnie, she considered her a fine woman, in her place of course, and she had at times envied her her son, for she considered Davie an intelligent boy, worth perhaps something more than the position of second cowman. But she was sure that her husband recognised this and would bear it in mind for his future. She had said as much to Winnie. But now the boy had come out of this situation without any honour; he would get a severe rating from Angus, that was sure, and serve him right, but once they were settled, Angus, fair man that he was, would no doubt see to building them a cottage of their own. Some time ago he had talked of renovating the old malt house. The foundations and part of the structure were still good; it was a picturesque place and a shame that it should be given over to the occasional stabling of a mare and foal. He had seemed very keen on the idea. That was some time ago; he had not mentioned it for months past. But now it would likely come to his mind again. It would make a most superior dwelling, fit for a bailiff, or in his case foreman. And why not? If Davie behaved himself from now on he could in time rise to that position, for Angus had talked more than once of engaging an intelligent man to act as a kind of manager, so that he himself could have more time to devote to other things, which, she had thought indulgently, included hunting and fishing. Last year he had been invited by Sir Alfred Tuppin to his Scottish estate to indulge in the latter sport when the salmon season was on. It was at that time he had talked about employing a capable manager.

But now she was sure everything would work out both for Molly and Davie, and the household, for Molly, being trained under Winnie, would take over when Winnie was too old to carry on, and outside Davie, she was sure, in spite of his lapse, would run the farm in the interests of his master.

They went out, not together, Molly walking a foot or so behind her mistress, as was right, and Delia spoke to her over her shoulder. ‘I’m seriously thinking of sending Miss Jane to Madame Lovell’s private school in Hexham,’ she said.

‘Oh, aye, Mistress.’ There was little interest in Molly’s response.

‘She is too old for the day school now, and it is not advanced

enough in its teaching. The master agrees that she should attend Madam Lovell’s.’

Again Molly said, ‘Oh, aye, Mistress.’

‘She will learn French and music, although she is quite good at the pianoforte now.’ She paused, then ended, ‘I thought I might like her at home to help with the . . . the baby, but the master is arranging to have a nurse. She will attend me as long as is necessary.’

When Molly did not answer she turned her head slightly and looked at the girl. Her face was sweating; there were beads of perspiration running from her hairline and down over her plump cheeks. She wanted to reassure her and say, ‘Don’t worry, everything is all right, the master will see that you’re cared for,’ but instead she said, ‘Run on ahead, Molly. Go down to the brook and see if she’s there; I’ll have to take my time. But you be careful too.’ She smiled at the girl, but it brought no response for when she passed her she hung her head, and she noted that she kept it down as she ran along the lane. She watched her sit atop the drystone wall that hemmed in the burn bank and kept the cattle from straying; she saw her swing her legs over one after the other; then she was lost from view.

She herself was very hot and feeling weary. Her step slowed. She hoped that Molly found Jane down there and also that she had got over her distress. She was a highly sensitive child, very young in some ways for her years, yet in others she was old beyond her years. She had a great fund of natural sympathy and affection, but she had one shortcoming in that she was given to wild fits of temper. This trait, she was sure, her daughter did not inherit from herself, for no matter what her own feelings, she was always able to conceal them. And she certainly did not inherit it from her father; Angus might get angry, but it was a controlled anger.

Sometimes she thought that the free life her daughter led might tend to make her become wilful; it was with the thought of erasing any possibility of this that she had suggested Madam Lovell’s school to her husband. In making this suggestion, she had made a personal sacrifice, because up to now Jane was the only proof she had to show that she was capable of bearing a child. So, therefore, she loved her very much. And the child had always given her affection and comfort . . . but never, she knew, love . . . that she had kept for her father.

She started as she heard Jane’s voice, high and shrill now, coming from the direction of the burn. It was as if she was crying, and in distress. She hurried along the lane to the spot where Molly had crossed the wall, but to make her descent she herself had to go much further along the winding path to where a gap gave way to natural slate steps down to the burn itself; and all the while she hurried she could hear her daughter’s voice.