Replenish the Earth

REPLENISH THE EARTH

Anna Jacobs

Chapter 1

Late February, 1735

A fire of seacoal glowed dimly in the grate and a shaded candle flickered in one corner of the room. The sound of the sick woman gasping for breath woke her daughter, who was dozing fitfully in a chair by the bed, and Sarah leaned forward anxiously. When her mother sighed into sleep again, she leaned back, closing her eyes as worries chased one another round her mind.

How would she manage once her mother died? The small annuity would die with her, and then Sarah would not only be alone in the world, but penniless and without friends or relatives.

She glanced down at her capable hands, reddened from all the washing, and spread them before her. Strong hands in a tall, strong body. Could they earn her a living? She fingered one strand of the honey-coloured hair lying loose about her shoulders, smiling wryly. Her mother said her hair was beautiful, and perhaps it was when it was curled and fussed with. But Sarah had no time for such frivolities these days. She’d only had time to care for her ailing mother during the past few weeks.

‘Sarah. We must - talk.’

She glanced up again to see her mother gazing at her anxiously. ‘You need to rest, not talk, Mother.’

‘I need to - tell you something.’

Sarah knew it would do more harm than good to try to prevent her mother speaking, so she smiled at the figure in the bed.

‘You look pretty when you smile, dear. Life – hasn’t been kind to you. You deserve better.’

‘Let me get you a drink first, then you shall talk.’ Sarah limped across to the tiny fire and swung the kettle over the flames, rubbing her bad hip, which always ached in the cold weather. ‘Here, try the new cordial the apothecary mixed yesterday. He thought you might find it an improvement on the other.’ And that’s the strongest he can make it, she thought. Pray God it will ease the pain for as long as need be!

‘When I’m gone . . . ’

‘Ah, Mother, don’t!’

‘I must! I worry for you. Afterwards, Sarah - you are to see the lawyer, tell him . . . ’

‘I saw Mr Peabody last month to collect our money. He knows about your illness.’

‘Not him!’ Her fingers tightened on Sarah’s hand. ‘You must go and see my father’s lawyer - Mr Jamieson - at the Sign of the Quill in Newbury Square - and you
must
ask him for help.’

Sarah’s mouth tightened to a narrow, bloodless line. ‘I want nothing to do with any of your family! If they disowned you when you married Father, then they disowned me, too!’

‘No! No! You must see him! You
must
!’

‘I won’t ask for their charity! And I doubt they’ll offer any help.’

The thin fingers dug into her arm. ‘You can’t deny - my last wish. My father must be dead by now, but my brother won’t refuse to help his niece. And you - you must accept - that help.’ Her face was deathly white and tears were running down her wasted cheeks. ‘
Promise me!’

Sarah could hold out no longer. ‘Very well. I promise.’

The grip on her arm relaxed and her mother let out a long sigh of relief. ‘I can go in peace now. You’ll keep your promise, I know.’

She watched her mother sigh into sleep. She would keep the promise. But she doubted it’d do any good, except to humiliate her. Well, she’d faced humiliations more than once since her father died. You didn’t die of it.

* * * * 

In Dorset, Will Pursely took the lawyer’s letter out to the copse and sat on the fallen log where he often sought refuge when things grew hard to bear, for he didn’t wish to add to his mother’s worries. The trees were leafless still, but the buds were getting fatter by the day and soon the tender green would burst forth. It was his favourite time of year. There was such promise in the surging growth of spring. Or there had been in other years.

For a moment or two he sat there, breathing in the cool, fresh air, enjoying the sound of the wind rustling the bare branches, letting the peace seep into his bones. Then, with a sigh, he unfolded the letter and studied it again. But no amount of reading would make the words say anything different.

My dear Mr Pursley,

I am in receipt of your letter of the second of this month, and I deeply regret that I can offer you no longer lease upon the home farm than a yearly tenancy. The will of Squire Bedham is still not resolved and in those circumstances no long-term plans can be made.

However, I sincerely hope that I shall be in a position to offer something more permanent by the time this new lease comes up for renewal.

In the meantime, I should be obliged if you would continue to act as our agent in Broadhurst, collecting the rents on the same terms as before.

Yours most sincerely

Samuel Jamieson

‘But what the devil do I do about the farm?’ Will asked the piece of paper, shaking it angrily. ‘I need some more cows and I see a chance to get them.’ But that would mean taking a risk. He’d already lost the main thing he cared about - his family’s farm, where he had been brought up and had expected to bring up his own sons in due course. Unfortunately, after his father’s death, it had been taken away from him by the new landowner, Matthew Sewell. He could feel anger stir in him at the mere thought of that so-called gentleman, who had quickly gained a reputation as a harsh master.

Will knew he was lucky to get the lease of this place at such short notice, but it didn’t feel like
home
and it was small - heart-breakingly small after Hay Nook Farm. He slapped his palm against his thigh in frustration. What worth was a year’s lease to a man who thought in terms of planting trees for the timber they would one day provide for his descendants, and breeding better stock over several generations of animals?

For a moment, bitterness scalded through him, then he tossed back the lock of dark hair that always fell across his brow and unfolded his long limbs. There was work to do done, always work to be done. No use sitting here feeling sorry for himself.

But if his mother had invited that silly Jen Tapper to tea again, he would walk out, he surely would, and go down to the village inn till she’d left. He hated young women mooning over him with foolish expressions on their faces. Didn’t think much of Jen Tapper’s face, anyway, come to that. She looked just like a cow he’d owned once, with her big eyes and heavy features. It had been a silly cow, but not nearly as silly as she was, however skilled she was in a dairy.

A man married more than a useful pair of hands. He needed someone he could live happily with, and bed happily, too.

It would be a long time before he’d consider marriage again. Once he’d lost the farm, Amy Barton hadn’t wanted him any more. Her father had come to see him the very next day to break off the engagement. And she’d married someone else so quickly that Will felt furious every time he saw her flaunting her full belly.

One day, he’d have his own land again and she’d be sorry.

With a growl of anger at the whole world, Will went back to dig the garden, slamming the spade into the ground and turning the soil until his arms ached. Soon be time to plant some vegetables. You didn’t need more than a year’s lease to grow and harvest those, at least.

The following day, he drove his mother into the village to sell her cream cheese and butter at the small weekly market, though she had little to offer nowadays compared to her former produce.

While he was strolling round the village green, looking at what else was on offer, he found himself facing his enemy.

Sewell blocked his path deliberately, arms akimbo. ‘Still here, Pursley? I thought I told you not to renew your lease on that hovel? I don’t want trouble-makers in my village.’

Behind him, the bully boy who accompanied him everywhere snickered.

Will folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’m not answerable to you, Sewell.’

‘
Squire
Sewell to such as you.’

‘Bedhams have always been squires in this village,’ Will retorted.

‘There are no Bedhams left.’

‘There’s an heir still to be found. And he’ll be squire, not you.’

Sewell slashed suddenly out with his cane. ‘Less of your impertinence, fellow.’

 Will felt the sting on his cheek and snatched at the cane, taking Sewell by surprise. He sent it spinning across towards the duckpond and when the bully moved towards him, he smiled and made sure he was ready to defend himself. ‘Come on, then, fellow! I could fancy a turn-to just now. ’Tis a pity your master’s a bit old for fighting, but I’ll make do with you.’

The man hesitated, looking to Sewell for orders.

Thad Honeyfield pushed through the crowd which had gathered to watch and came to range himself at Will’s side, hefting his blacksmith’s hammer suggestively. A couple of other men moved forward from the crowd and stood behind them.

The people who owed their livings and cottages to Sewell took care to move a step or two backwards, but lingered still to watch.

After a moment’s pause, Sewell shook his head and gestured to his man to stand back. ‘You have no place in this village now, Pursley. When will you recognise that?’

‘I don’t agree. I just had my lease on the home farm renewed, so it seems to me I do still have a place here.’

‘No one would call that tiny patch of muck a farm!’ Sewell scoffed. Turning on his heel, he strode off, pausing once to toss over his shoulder, ‘You’ll regret this.’

Will watched him go, then turned to his friend. ‘Thanks, Thad. But don’t put yourself in danger for me.’

The blacksmith shrugged. ‘I’m already in his bad books because I refuse to sell him my land - he can’t bear that I have two whole acres to call my own, that one. He must own every single thing in the village, it seems.’

Both men watched Sewell climb into his coach and be driven off.

‘What was he doing here today?’ Will wondered aloud. ‘He doesn’t usually honour our small market with his presence.’

‘He came to see Mr Rogers.’

‘If he’s been bothering Parson - ’

‘He hasn’t. Mrs Jenks wouldn’t let him into the house.’

They both smiled. Parson’s housekeeper would rout the very devil himself if he tried to disturb her beloved master, who was still recovering from a fever.

As his friend walked back to the forge, Will turned and glanced towards his mother, who signalled that she’d sold her produce and wanted to go home. She was looking anxious and he knew the encounter with Sewell would worry her.

Why could that man not let well alone? Hadn’t he already turned the Pursleys out of their home? And done the same to one or two others. Did he want to grind the whole world under his heel?

* * * *

Elizabeth Mortonby lingered for another week, drifting mostly in a merciful haze of laudanum, then slipped away quietly in the night, so that Sarah woke to a silent room and knew at once what had happened. Loneliness seemed to surround her like a high wall but she wouldn’t let herself weep. What good would it do?

 Widow Thomas, the landlady, flew into a rage when told of the death and was loud in her complaints that she had been deceived as to her lodger's health. A death on the premises was bad for business. Heartless wretches, they were, to damage a poor widow's livelihood! They wouldn’t have got the room if she’d known how ill Mistress Mortonby was, that was sure!

‘Would you kindly make the necessary arrangements as soon as possible, Miss Mortonby, because a corpse lying around will upset the other lodgers!’

‘You can be sure that I shall do things in a proper manner.’

The vicar was sent for, but the curate came in his place, for it was a raw February day and the vicar was fond of his creature comforts. Mr Rawby, a studious young man recently ordained, peered at the corpse, but seemed disinclined to approach it too closely. He offered up a cursory prayer for the soul of—er, Elizabeth Mortonby’, agreed to hold the funeral service the very next morning and volunteered to inform the sexton for ‘Miss—er, Mortonby’.

He always had trouble remembering their names, Sarah thought bitterly, but he had no difficulty with the names of richer parishioners.

She had to brave the weather to make the practical arrangements for the coffin and its transportation to the church, and returned to a cheerless room, whose fire had gone out. Conscious of the still figure on the bed, she could eat nothing, but she did light the fire again and brew herself a dish of weak tea with some of the tea dust at the bottom of the caddy. 

Later, two men came with the coffin, a poor affair of splintery wood and clumsy joints. The older one smiled sympathetically at Sarah. ‘You sit down over there, miss, and we’ll be as quick as we can.’

‘Thank you.’

In between helping, the younger man gazed round the room, but said nothing.

‘Your mother, is she?’ the older man asked, squinting at her from under his lank hair.

‘Yes.’ Sarah dug her fingernails into her palms, determined not to give way to her grief in front of these strangers.