Unlike his predecessors, Old Squire George was made of substance. He never drank and with determination he managed to save the family from selling their property and lands. But he had not quite built enough wealth to restore his home to its former glory.
He hoped his own son would be the man to restore it. Franklin Bennet was George’s only child and heir. Franklin had grown into a wealthy and resourceful gentleman of good character, like his father. He was sure to finish what his father started.
After George died, the town was delighted when Franklin was declared their new Squire. They were especially thrilled that he was moving into the abbey. It made him easily accessible.
Many of the older folk remembered Franklin as a young boy. He had been a fine lad and liked by all. He played with the local children and never thought himself above them. He had been smart enough to go away to university and study science. They hoped the snobbish, fine London life had not changed him.
One Christmas, Franklin had returned to Quarrendon as a married man. The town instantly warmed to his new bride. They could tell she was as charitable as he and thought them well suited. She was a petite little thing and as sweet as he was charming.
Above all, she had shown consideration to the tenants. That Christmas, she came baring gift packages containing oranges, which were unaffordable to the poor and needy. She made sure she provided an orange for each person from every household. She continued the tradition every time they spent Christmas in Quarrendon.
Franklin made a ritual of bringing his family to Quarrendon every second Christmas, so that his father could spend the odd occasion with family. Alternative Christmases were spent with his wife’s family.
Sadly, the visits became scarce over the years. Franklin’s career took off and would take him far from home. His scientific and inventing endeavours took him on several overseas voyages. In his absence, his family were left in the care of his wife’s parents. His wife, Maude, particularly needed the extra help with their son, George.
Their only son had been born a boisterous, healthy boy and quickly grew into a robust toddler. At the age of two, he started to pick up words and was on the run all the time. Then close to age three, something happened. He stopped talking and had never spoken since. He never matured. Even though his physical body grew and developed in proportion to his age, his mind stayed at the level of a three-year-old boy.
Franklin and Maude took him to the best doctors, but nothing could be done. Franklin also tried his own experiments to no avail. Sometimes there seemed a fleeting moment of a breakthrough, but every time they were deceived.
After some time, the Bennets accepted their son’s condition for what it was and tried to make the best of it. Some doctors advised them to lock him away, but they wouldn’t have it. In many ways, their boy brought them joy.
George taught them unconditional love and deeper things about themselves. He was already teaching his sisters how to unselfishly care for another human being.
They stopped seeing the boy as a problem to be fixed. They stopped needing answers. He was a gift from God. He was part of the family and loved by all. He was especially loved by Grandpa George. Old George and young George had a connection. When old Lord Bennet became widowed, their bond became even stronger. The old man often visited the family in his lonely days, particularly to see his grandson.
Nobody could explain their special bond; Old George generally wasn’t a man who showed affection. Even though he was kind and caring, he was also standoffish. He felt uncomfortable with physical affection.
Young George was the same. He neither liked to be touched nor showed affection. But Grandpa George was the exception. As soon as George saw his grandfather, he’d run into his arms and lie all over him. His grandpa would let him and never complained.
Truth be told, Franklin and Maude couldn’t help feeling a little jealous. As devoted parents, they had to be satisfied with respecting their son’s indifference. He didn’t throw himself all over them like he did his grandpa, but occasionally, he’d surprise them by wanting a hug. Those were rare occasions.
One gloomy day, it came as a sad shock to discover how close the two Georges were. Young George sensed when his grandfather passed away. He mourned for a long time. It was horrible for his parents to watch. Their young boy had no idea what to do with all the pain.
Mercifully, the news that they were moving to Grandpa’s town seemed to give some comfort to the boy.
Beatrice busied herself in the kitchenette while her mother fussed over a freshly-baked cake.
‘Honestly, Beatty, you’ve been runnin’ outside and lookin’ down the road since the sun came up,’ Cordelia said. ‘They’ll come when they come. In the meantime, get all your work done and then I don’t care what you do after that.’
Her mother always carried on like the world was on her shoulders.
‘Do I have to do all the work around here?’ Cordelia groused. ‘I’m not gettin’ any younger, ya know. You should be takin’ care of me. You’re still young and strong. My bones are gettin’ weary, I’ll have ya know. And that lazybones father of yours won’t lift a finger. ‘Cept for a bottle of whiskey.’
Beatty let out an exasperated sigh. Her ma glared at her like she wanted to deck her. She felt her mother’s disdain burning right through her. Since moving back in with her parents, both her ma and pa had hardly lifted a finger. They leaned on her for everything. She was back to being their workhorse again, like when she was a kid.
She ran away from this life at sixteen to marry her beloved, but he turned out to be a big disappointment. Beatty learnt quickly her husband was the same as her da. When she first married him, she was too blinded by young love to notice. He was a distant cousin, Henry Clarke. She was sixteen and desperate to escape her miserable life at home when they married.
He died twelve months ago in a pub brawl and left her nothing. She was told her husband was brawling over a floozy in the pub. Good riddance, she thought.
Funny thing was, she had dreamt the night before his death was going to happen. Another strange thing was she had never felt any grief. The feeling following his demise was more like relief.
Now she was back home again with her parents, childless, and with nothing to show for her nine years in an abusive marriage—back home, running after her nagging mother and drunken father again.
They had become worse.
Her mother liked to play the victim. In her opinion, nobody had it worse than she. Beatty presumed her mother’s misery stemmed from her unhappy marriage. Dear ol’ pa was certainly a disappointment to her mother, and perhaps what happened recently was the last straw.
One night, Beatty’s drunken pa came into her room and started touching her like a lover. Her ma came when she called and removed him. Since then, Beatrice locked her door every night, without fail.
When her husband died, she had no choice but to go back to her parents until something better came along. At first, her parents felt invaded by her reappearance. It wasn’t long before they had her fetching things for them and doing all the housework. She also helped her ma bring in extra income using her gift.
Her ma mainly read palms and tea leaves, while Beatty read cards. She’d get flashes of her clients’ lives while reading. She didn’t mind the job; it was just her parents’ constant demands that annoyed her: ‘Beatty, can you get me this? Can you get me that? Can you rub my feet? Can you pour me another drink?’
Beatty hoped befriending the neighbours would be an escape. She thought she could perhaps befriend the girls. She didn’t mind that they were far younger. She was rather childish herself. She was still playful and young at heart. Sometimes, she wished she was still a kid. Her grownup world had a lot to answer for.
She wondered if some of the girls on staff would be around her age too. If she had a friend, she could escape her suffocating ma. Her ma’s moaning and groaning never ceased. At least her pa was never home. The pub was his home. He only turned up for a feed and b
ed.
Beatty finished sweeping up rat droppings when she heard people outside cheering. There had been a crowd gathering all day, which showed she wasn’t the only one excited to see the new arrivals. She lent the broom against the wall and left the droppings in a pile, ready to be swooped up and discarded. At least they were away from the walk areas.
She ignored her ma’s protests as she raced outside.
Three wagons were in the distance, one behind the other. Beatty heard the wagon wheels turning, grinding over the small pebbles. Horse hooves clopped along. The wagon drivers flicked their reigns, urging the horses on. There was no talking amongst those arriving. Beatty supposed they were worn out from the long journey, not to mention the packing and heavy lifting involved with moving to a new house.
Each wagon had three or four people to their seats. There was no sign of the Bennets. Beatty gathered these people were their staff.
The wagons were loaded with heavy, exquisite furniture, of the kind she was never likely to purchase herself.
It seemed slow motion, watching them steadily draw near.
When the first wagon pulled up in front of the crowd, the driver addressed them all. ‘We’ve come ahead with the furniture. The master will be comin’ soon by carriage. They’re a good hour away.’
There was an awkward silence until one of the elders in the crowd welcomed the newcomers to Quarrendon. The driver dipped his head without a smile or word. His eyes and stooped shoulders showed the fatigue he was suffering.
‘Well then, must keep goin’,’ said the driver. He flicked the reins and the horses moved on. The two wagons behind him followed. Beatty studied the long faces on all the staff as they passed. She felt for every one of them. They were all exhausted and they still had unpacking to do.
The wagons stopped in front of the abbey and immediately the staff jumped into action. They started unpacking and marching furniture into the building in a frenzy. Where they suddenly acquired their energy, Beatty was at a loss.
Most of the crowd had dispersed. Beatty chose to stay outside with the few remaining to wait for the master’s arrival.
More than an hour passed. The small crowd slowly dropped off, and after a short while Beatty changed her mind and headed down the garden path yet again.
When she was inside she went straight up the stairs, completely ignoring her mother on the way.
‘You’re an insolent one today,’ she heard in the background.
She grabbed a book from her room and went downstairs to sit at the window. Her mother finally got the hint to leave her alone. This was a day Beatty wanted to attend to her own agenda.
She tried hard to read her book, but she kept looking out the window. She repeated the same page over and over. At one point, she managed to read three whole pages, but she had no idea what she had read. Realising it was a helpless endeavour, she snapped the book shut and put it aside.
‘Ma,’ she yelled, ‘make us a cuppa tea, will ya?’
‘Nothin’ wrong with your legs, daughter. Make it yourself.’
Beatrice jumped up and stomped into the kitchenette. She banged the cupboards and slammed everything down on the bench. She made a hell of a racket, hoping her ma would regret not serving her this one cuppa, after all the cups Beatty had made her.
She became louder and more aggressive at her mother’s nonchalance. It was a wonder she didn’t break anything.
When the tea was steaming and well-brewed, Beatty knew better. She poured the tea with care.
‘Pour one for me too, will ya, love?’
Beatty stared at her mother with contention, but it too went unnoticed.
She poured a second cup, making it the way her mother liked it. ‘On the table, come and get it,’ she yelled at her mother.
‘Thank you, me Bonny Lass. What would I do without you?’
Beatty walked out of the kitchenette, sipping on her tea. There was something calming about a warm brew. She settled at the window and blew softly into her cup before taking another small sip. It was easier to stare out the window and dreamily sip on her tea than to read. Her mind was too preoccupied to do anything more.
People gathering outside caught Beatty’s eye. They were looking down the road and getting excited. Beatty felt she was missing out on all the fun.
‘They’re here,’ she yelled out to her mother. She put her cup down and bolted outside.
Cordelia watched from the window. She wasn’t big on crowds. Beatty standing amongst the crowd was miraculous. They didn’t seem to shun her on this particular day. It was a good thing something else had their attention. They were as awestruck as Beatty.
The Bennets’ carriage was magnificent, as if out of a fairy tale. It was nothing like Beatty had ever seen before. She believed the royals themselves would travel in something similar.
A man was on top of the coach with the driver. He was waving and tipping his hat to everyone.
‘’Tis our new Squire,’ said one of the town elders. ‘’Tis our boy, Franklin.’
A head popped out of the carriage window. It was one of the girls. Her sister soon joined her. They were so alike they could easily be mistaken for twins, except one was a little more petite than the other. The girls, Antonia and Freya, were ten and nine. The younger girl, Freya, was taller and bigger framed, but both were fair and blue-eyed, like their mother.
Beatty was dying to see what the boy looked like. He would be seven now. She wondered if little George was handsome like his da.
Franklin Bennet was as dark and handsome as ever. Maybe even more handsome than the last time she’d seen him. That was just before she had married and moved away. He and his wife were having Christmas with his parents, and his wife was heavily pregnant with their first child.
The girls waved to the crowd, exciting them further. Beatty too was swept up in the moment.
The girls made eye contact with Beatty as their carriage passed by, making her feel special. Mr Bennet seemed to notice her in the crowd too. He was even more handsome close up. For a second, her eyes locked with his. She flicked them to the ground in embarrassment.
Beatty ran behind the carriage the short distance to the abbey. The staff had already unloaded most of the furniture. There was still a way to go, though.
Out of consideration, the crowd did not enter the estate as there was no fence line. They made a reasonable judgement on where the estate should end and kept their distance.
The carriage pulled up beside a large oak tree, the only one of its kind on the estate. Mr Bennet climbed down and opened the door. His agility was impressive. The coachman, after securing his reigns, descended and disappeared over to the other wagons to offer a helping hand.
Mr Bennet set the carriage steps in place and offered his hand to his daughters. He was about to lift his son out, but little George wanted to climb out on his own. Mr Bennet waited patiently as his boy disembarked.
As Beatty had imagined, the boy was the image of his father. By looking alone, she couldn’t tell there was anything wrong with him. Little by little, though, the signs began to reveal themselves. He didn’t acknowledge people. At first, he came across as ignorant, but then when the crowd began to call out to him and wave, he made distressed noises and buried himself into his father’s legs. Mr Bennet insisted that the onlookers leave the boy alone as he could not handle stress.
Lady Bennet was the next to be escorted from the carriage. She too was as beautiful as ever. Time had not sapped her of her looks but had rather enhanced them.
As a clan, the Bennet family walked over to the shady tree and waited there for some chairs to arrive. Within minutes, the carriage driver and some men brought over the eight-chair outdoor table setting.
The Bennets sat around the table and remained there while their workers busied themselves. The scene was little chaotic with the staff members in and out the door. While the family treated themselves to some refreshments, Beatty found the courage to break away from the crowd and approach the family.
The crowd, especially the two women who belonged to the Blackwell and Seymour families respectively, looked on with disdain as she approached. They were to report the events back to their matriarch mothers.
‘Who does she think she is?’ Annie Blackwell said, unimpressed.
‘The impertinence of the girl,’ replied the Seymour offspring.
‘They’ll chase her away like an annoyin’ fly,’ said a nearby elderly man who overheard their remarks.
The women agreed before clamming up. Typically foes, in the excitement of the day, they had not realised they were standing together and making light conversation.
Since the arrival of Cordelia Clarke and her daughter, their families had been trying to make amends to ally against their latest rivals. Yet it was hard to let go of all the hatred and insults they had endured from one another over the years.
At first they looked shocked, but then they stuck their noses in the air and parted.
‘’Scuse me, sir, ma’am. My name is Beatrice. I’m your neighbour. I live in the farmhouse with me ma and pa.’ She pointed at their small cottage, which was mostly hidden away by the crowd. ‘You can call me Beatty.’
‘Well, hello, Beatty,’ said Lady Bennet, in her friendly way. ‘I recognise your face. You would have been barely a girl when I last saw you.’
‘It was almost nine years ago, ma’am. Just before me weddin’. I was sixteen when I married. I’m a widow now. Moved back in with me parents a year ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Beatty,’ replied Lady Bennet.
‘Likewise,’ Mr Bennet said.
Beatty shrugged her shoulders. ‘Such is life, ain’t it?’ She quickly turned her attention to other matters. ‘Me ma knew you’d be busy movin’ into the house, so she’s taken the liberty to bake a cake and prepare a pot of tea and some ginger beer for the children. Please say yes to her kindness. She’ll be disappointed if you don’t. It’s her way of welcomin’ the new neighbours. She’s been brought up that way. She says it’s only good manners.’
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