Larkrigg Fell (37 page)

He saw her stiffen, knew he was saying all the wrong things, but could do nothing to take them back.

‘Why should I feel guilty? It was only the once, I tell you.’ Beth was trembling, desperately searching for a way out of this awful mess.

‘But if he hadn’t been openly living with your sister, you wouldn’t have refused him a second, or a third time, would you?’

She drew in a quick, startled breath. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘Sounds fair to me. Are you saying you weren’t in love with him, despite all you told me to the contrary?’

Beth was forced to turn her gaze away, unable to deny the truth. And Andrew strode from the room without another word.

The cosy evenings in the parlour were over. She told herself it was because Andrew was busy with the hundred and one tasks which kept him working long hours on the farm. Which was partly true. But that would not explain why he seemed to go out of his way to avoid her, rarely addressed her directly and never spoke her name. He took to calling her ‘the wife’ as if distancing himself from her. Beth hated the expression. ‘I’m not a possession,’ she told him. ‘Like the house, or the farm, or the car. I’m me. Use my name. Talk to me.’

‘Not now, Beth. I’m too busy. Besides, I’m surprised you want to waste your time talking to a yokel like me, let alone marry one.’

‘Oh, not that old chestnut again.’ But he would walk away, head held high in that stubborn way he had and she could only stamp her foot in frustration and wonder how she could ever regain that warmth which had been developing between them, and now seemed totally lost.

Slowly, painfully, winter passed and Beth spent more nights alone in her lovely new parlour than she cared to count. Where Andrew spent his time she didn’t know and daren’t ask. She knew that he’d taken to often going out of an evening, along to the Broomdale Inn, no doubt, where he could hide his disappointment in a pint or two of best bitter.

Sometimes she heard him clumping up the stairs to his single room at well past midnight. An unheard of time for Andrew with milking first thing. Once, she almost went out to confront him, but heard him stumble on the stairs, swearing copiously. She shrank back to her bed and maintained their silence.

Beth slept little and was desperately tired. She felt old suddenly, all the games and hopes and dreams of youth dead in her. And each morning she would be acutely aware of Seth’s quiet gaze upon her, the unspoken questions in his watery old eyes, which she steadfastly ignored.

It was true that she could do with someone to talk to. Someone who wasn’t too critical. If only Tess were here, or even Sarah. She still visited Ellen regularly, Sally Ann at Ashlea and Meg down at Broombank, but found it quite impossible to broach the subject with any of them. She maintained the myth of a happy marriage and felt more and more alone. No one suspected that anything was wrong, so why should she disillusion them?

She would be loyal to her husband, if nothing else. No one must know that they were, in fact, no more man and wife now than they’d been on that June day last summer.

Beth greeted the onset of spring with relief and took to spending hours in the patch of overgrown garden at the back of the farmhouse, as if she could bury her unhappiness in the thin stony soil. Clumps of nettles, rosebay willow herb, bindweed and wild poppies choked the long grass. Perhaps if she could dig it all up and make a proper garden, grow her own vegetables and fruit and flowers, she would have achieved something worthwhile and Andrew would take notice.

She might take up beekeeping. The honey would be useful and she could sell the excess on Kendal’s free market, which operated on Saturday mornings. The old folk tale said that you should tell bees everything. She would talk to the bees since no one else was interested in her woes, she thought, in a welter of self pity.

Seth quietly watched these frenetic activities with growing curiosity and interest. He saw how her eyes followed Andrew when he passed by and how his grandson rarely caught her lingering gaze. He noticed his quick temper. Things weren’t going too well for the newly weds, that was certain.

Yet she was a bonny li’le thing. Not a beauty by any means but what he would call comely. Sometimes she tied one of them cotton triangular scarves about her hair to hold it back while she worked. Suited her, it did. And being outdoors so much had polished her skin to a summer brightness without coarsening it. Her cheeks glowed like ripe apples. How could his grandson not notice how she was blossoming? And why did he never admire her determined efforts to be a good farmer’s wife?

Seth made up his mind to do his best to make up for his grandson’s negligence by giving the young lass every assistance. Near twelve months she’d been with them, time they stopped thinking of her as an offcomer.

He carefully set about instructing her in the feeding and care of calves, bought her a fresh clutch of hens since her own were past their best, so they could enjoy their own free range eggs again, and she could sell the surplus. He even taught her how to milk Flossie, their latest house cow. This last seemed to delight her more than anything and she readily took over the chore.

‘We’re not a dairy farm, so we don’t have all the equipment,’ he apologised.

‘Oh, I don’t mind. I really don’t mind hand milking.’

She always seemed so grateful for his interest, so anxious to be up early every morning to milk Flossie, feed the calves and prepare a good breakfast for the men when they came in at nine after their own early chores. Nay, you couldn’t help but admire the li’le lass. And in no time at all she’d scoured out the old dairy, and bowls of cream stood everywhere as she struggled to learn how to make butter, cream and cheese.

Even Billy began to take an interest in the new activity.

‘What you up to now?’ he enquired, the truculent edge of suspicion back in his voice. When Beth explained, his eyebrows shot up and he stood nonplussed for a whole half minute. Then he turned on his heel and vanished out the door.

‘Oh, dear,’ Beth thought. ‘I’ve offended him again.’

But moments later he was back, an old book in his hand. ‘Here,’ he said, thrusting it at her in an awkward sort of way. ‘My Emily allus used that. Been in the family for generations. Was my mother’s once upon a time. She set down all her recipes in it for pickling, jams and such like. And these are my Emily’s muslins. You pour the curds and whey through like, once the milk has thickened. We could get a couple of pigs to use up the whey you have left. The curd you make into cream cheese and wrap them in paper. Emily used to add herbs an’ all sorts. Don’t keep right well but hers were allus so good we were happy to eat them up right away. We enjoyed them.’

Beth clutched the precious book to her breast and smiled up at her father-in-law. ‘Oh, thank you, Billy. I really do appreciate this. I don’t suppose I’ll ever be as good as Emily, but I’ll certainly try.’

‘Aye,’ he said, shyly rubbing his palms on his trousers. ‘Aye well, I can’t stand about here all day. There’s work to be done.’

It was yet another small victory. Beth made the cheese, suffering many failures before she got it right. She experimented with herbs and garlic, and her three menfolk tried and tested, though she waited in vain for a word of praise from her husband. While the other two were ready enough to show appreciation where it was due, even offer a gentle word of advice, Andrew ate the cheese with the same stolid seriousness he would any other dish she put before him, and said nothing.

Seth noted her disappointment, and the air of sadness that clung to her. She might be getting on much better with us two old ‘uns, he told himself, having won us over with our stomachs like all women do, yet with her own husband there was no response. The lass wasn’t happy, not like when she’d first come, all bouncy and full of hope. Summat was wrong, and he wondered how best to deal with the matter, how much further he dare go.

Chapter Twenty-One

Beth herself gave Seth the opportunity he needed. He was sitting in the yard on his rush-seated chair, a fox head taking shape in his hands as he carved and whittled the horn with the edge of his knife. He enjoyed working out of doors in the summer sunshine, and watching her weed and tidy the little garden and tie up raspberry canes.

‘Thee’s done a good job there,’ he told her, warm in his praise as he surveyed the neat garden with its rows of newly planted vegetables. ‘Didn’t know half what we’d got under all that jungle till you cleared it.’

‘The raspberries are already starting to come. I shall make jam this autumn. You’d like that, I dare say?’

‘I wouldn’t say no,’ the old man admitted. ‘Your bread’s improving, I’ll give you that. Quite light it is now. Don’t give me indigestion no more.’

Beth laughed, enjoying the gentle banter with the old man. ‘It’ll be winter again soon and then I won’t be able to work in the garden quite so much.’ She came to sit beside him on a low stone wall, thinking of the long lonely evenings she’d have to face, yet again. ‘I like to be busy, and I want to be able to contribute to the farm’s finances. I was wondering what best to do this winter. Have you any ideas?’

He considered for a long time before answering. ‘In the old days a wife would spin or knit. Sally Ann still knits umpteen stockings.’

 
Beth shook her head in apology. ‘I’ve tried knitting and I’m not very good at it.’

‘What do you fancy doing, then?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve had various ideas and discounted most of them.’ She hugged her knees, wondering if she dare broach the subject direct. She’d certainly welcome his advice. Once she’d tried mentioning the idea to Andrew, but he’d no time to listen to her chatter.

‘But we need to talk, Andrew,’ she’d protested.

‘I’ve nowt to say that you would want to hear.’ And he’d walked away from her, as always.

That’s how they were. Stilted little comments. Sniping words. Each day they seemed to grow further and further apart.

She blinked, pushing the memory aside. ‘I remember Mom talking about how she loved the feel of sheepskin and fancied working with it one day, but never got around to it. I feel exactly the same. I love sheepskins too.’

‘Thee doesn’t want to take up sheep farming, does thee? Like your gran.’

Beth laughed. ‘No. I admire Meg enormously but that’s not for me, I’m afraid. What happens to the skins? Do we sell them all to the wool marketing board?’

‘Aye. We get the best price we can for them, such as it is.’

‘Are there no bits left over? No oddments?’

The old man shook his head, frowning. ‘Not usually. The animal has to be sheared in one piece.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Why? What are you thinking of?’

She took a deep breath. ‘I thought about making moccasins, tiny slippers for babies and children. I could practise doing them by hand at the kitchen table during the winter. Then I could sell the slippers, to add a bit to the housekeeping. What do you think?’ She waited, breath held tight, for his response.

He was silent for a long moment, then he put back his old head and gave a shout of laughter, showing all the gaps in his yellow teeth. ‘Nay, lass. Didn’t I say you were a chip off the old block? Just like your mam and gran. Always an eye for the main chance.’

Beth laughed with him. ‘I suppose so, but what do you think? Your honest opinion mind. If it’s daft, say so. I want to be a good wife to Andrew.’

Poor little lass, he thought. She must want to please him very badly. ‘I would’ve thought you had enough on your plate with three chaps to look after.’

‘I don’t mind hard work. Besides, it would be something of my own, to do in the evenings. I don’t want to be a burden.’ She became eager, now that she’d finally revealed these private thoughts and dreams. ‘I’ve saved up some money from my marketing and if it proves successful, I could buy a sewing machine later. Shall I risk it?’

‘Why ask me? I reckon you should talk about it to Andrew. He’s your husband, after all.’

The smile faded and Seth watched it go with regret. ‘He always seems too busy to talk these days.’

‘Nay, he can spare thee a minute for a bit of crack, surely?’

She shook her head.

‘Well, that’s a poor do. Anyroad…’ He pondered for a moment, then with a lift of his shoulders returned his attention to the fox head coming to life in his hands. ‘You weren’t so shy and uncertain of theeself when you told us to take our clogs off that first day.’

Beth smiled. ‘I wonder how I had the nerve.’

‘Nor did you wait for Billy’s, nor my permission when you took it into your head to do up t’parlour. So why wait for permission now? If Andrew hasn’t time to talk, that’s his loss. You get on with it. Make him proud of you, if that’s what you’re after. We’ve one or two poor sheepskins left over from the clipping. You can practise on them. If you get to be any good, you could buy them in quite cheap, I dare say.’

‘Oh, could I?’ she gasped, clapping her hands together with delight. ‘Why not? I’ll do it.’

She would make Andrew proud of her. She’d make him really sit up and take notice. Beth felt she must convince him that she hadn’t simply married him for a job ticket, that she could pull her weight on the farm.

She almost bounced back to her gardening, plans and designs already forming in her head. ‘Look at these. I’ve found two blackcurrant and one gooseberry bush under all this tangle, would you believe?’