by Leah Fleming
‘Nah, I’ve better things to do than trail after skirts. ’Tis pity the Parson don’t roll up his shirt sleeves more often and get out in the fields like a man instead of a milksop. You want to watch the likes of him in the bushes!’ Abel roared at the lewdness of his suggestion.
‘He’s an old gentle man… a man of the cloth, sir. He likes to instruct the children in the ways of Nature.’
‘Oh, aye, does he now? I bet he’s shown his maids a bit of instruction in his time…’ It was turning out to be the longest conversation they had had in weeks and Hetty was sick of it.
‘Come on, everyone, time to be on our way. We shall be going over the stile and up the ridge into the next valley southwards.’ She drew her cloak around herself like a shield as she passed her husband and tried not to shiver as he towered over them with a suspicious look on his scowling face. ‘Where’s me snap?’
‘Wrapped in the cloth where it always is.’
She did not look back as he yelled: ‘Don’t be late home. I want my dinner when the clock chimes, mind on.’
Shut up, go away, don’t spoil the day before it begins, thought Hetty. He always wanted the last word, to hold the power of a beating over her head, to break her spirit as well as her body. I’m too strong-willed for him and he knows it. He’s the weak one. Sometimes she felt a kind of pity for this lumbering, ignorant farmer who hated her as much as she loathed the family which had yoked them together.
They met up with Parson Thomas and his maid at the lane end stile, crossed over the meadows where sheep grazed in the green shoots rising in the stubble. Up the ridge they trailed towards the Barnsley footpath then downwards into a dip where the thickets were laden with berries, blackthorn, acorns and hazel nuts. The sun was high and warm and the children set to picking like demons. Flies hovered over the riper fruits, birds darted for cover, the last of the butterflies descended on the thistles which scratched bare feet and legs. There would be enough fruit for pies and wine, cordial syrup and preserves. Soon Ephraim had purple lips and fingers and leapt from bush to bush, trying to catch the richest branches which were always too high for his reach. The Parson’s maid filled a basket in no time and went to the aid of the younger children who were acting silly and chasing around. It was generally agreed that a walk to Dr Floyer’s nearby water gardens would dampen their high spirits.
‘If we come at the site from the north we should not intrude on the works there. There is a law of trespass now which forbids you to cross lands without permission, children. Hark at what I say for there are men who would set traps for their own kind to stop you in your tracks and charge you with trespass. I have seen woodsmen crippled by iron gin traps and hanged as poachers. We have leave to be here today but don’t interrupt the women at their garden work. We are just going to take a peep.’
The party walked a mile downhill to open parkland past gracious houses set amongst trees with gravel driveways curving around through the fields. Then the track narrowed and became shady in a gorge of overhanging rock covered with green mosses. Holly trees arched over them and they wound their way into another park where the bushes were thick with strange leaves. Here the brook was being diverted into small lakes fed by a stream with banks of shrubs shielding the spa from public view.
There was much debate about cold bathing and Hetty remembered as a child how her father had consulted the famous physician, Sir John Floyer, on some health matter and undergone the prescribed treatment, sitting alone under the roof, bathing in the icy waters of Unitt’s well. Whatever the cure it did his temper no good and he took to his bed afterwards, proclaiming the man to be a charlatan and quack. Somehow she’d imagined this new temple grove would have an arched dome, a fine aspect, lend a Grecian air to the scene. It was just a little brick hut over a spring, not much to trample over hill and dale to see. The children wanted to race down the slope and splash in the water but they were shooed away by the gardeners and told to depart.
Hetty did not understand why the good doctor wanted to improve such a simple rustic scene, divert streams, make islands of shrubbery. She thought of the open parkland at Longhall. The trees were cut down now to open the views and the sheep fenced off. The garden was trussed up, enclosed and fussed over as if it were some overdressed lady in need of a stiff corset. What was wrong with simplicity? A beautiful face needed no painting. She watched Parson Thomas disappear into the bushes. To steal cuttings, no doubt. It was kind of him to want to cheer up her spirits but seeing the parkland only reminded her of her fall in life, the hopelessness of her position, being neither fish nor fowl in the village, and the misery of life in her marital prison.
‘Come… come. It’s time to get on with our picking before that black cloud catches up with us. Let’s race it!’
As she spoke she could feel droplets of rain drizzling down on her face. There was a nip in the wind and soon the heavens would open and soak them to the skin. None of them was clad for bad weather. The barefoot children were the best shod for the journey back to their hoard of berries. Their baskets were sodden and the berries soggy and squashy to touch. Some creature had knocked over the bowls, leaving the fruit trampled and useless. It was a bedraggled party of adults and children who climbed wearily back over the stiles to Fridwell. Their harvest was ruined and they were late. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach Hetty sensed trouble and made sure that all the children and the Parson were safely home.
Abel Barnswell was waiting for them on the door step and strode out into the yard to greet them with a grim smirk on his face and a glint of steel in his eye.
*
Ephraim knew there would be trouble. Iron Man’s mouth was set in a thin line, his cheeks were flushed. The boy sensed his mother stiffen as they moved nearer and slow her pace. Why had she let the Parson go back down to the village with the others? He alone could have excused their delay, explained the poor harvest of fruits, delayed the inevitable onslaught if only for a few minutes. Ephraim was so cold and wet and tired and hungry. Their blackberry pickings would not satisfy Iron Man but the boy would offer to go back there again himself and collect more for his mother. There were other bushes to pick from nearby.
‘Well, what time do you call this to be out whorin’ with yer fancy friend?’ Silence reigned as Mother prepared a gentle reply to his challenge.
‘Come, Mister Barnswell. You see the weather, our condition… soaked to the skin. It took us longer than expected. We brought plenty home, see?’
Iron Man snatched her basket and flung it across the yard. ‘Do you call this soggy mess a day’s work? While I break my back, you gad off into the fields like some shepherdess pretending you’re still Miss Hetty bloody Salt, Lady of the Manor… not the whore I was paid to take off their hands for carrying a bastard!’
‘No, Abel, please… the boy! Not here…’
‘He might as well know that he’s a bastard, given my name to spare the blushes of your high ’n’ mighty family. Just a mangy whelp, born from a harlot’s belly… that’s my boy Ephraim. He should know he’s no flesh of mine and will get nothing from me but my name in this life.’
‘Pr… pr… praise b… be to G… God I am none of yourn!’
The words flowed out of Ephraim in rage. Iron Man strode over and lifted him like a rag doll, flinging him against the stable door which gave way. He fell not on to the cobbles but unharmed on the soft straw. ‘Useless little runt! Get out of my sight!’
‘No, Abel! Not the boy. Don’t touch him… it’s not his fault… not the child!’ screamed Hetty as Abel’s hard eyes turned to her. She rushed towards him like a tigress defending her cub, battering his chest, her puny efforts making him roar with laughter. Then his face hardened as he loosened his belt. He was going to strap her to the floor again.
‘No, please God! Not in front of the boy…’
Then a strange look of surprise flooded his dark face. He flung up his arms in a gesture of surrender as he staggered forward and fell twitching at her feet.
*
Parson Thomas was woken from his fireside nap by the loud ringing of the bell at the front porch and the dogs barking. He was sitting with his feet in a bowl of hot mustard, a shawl around his neck for the afternoon soaking had chilled him to the marrow. He had been shivering all evening and the mustardy fumes were making him sneeze.
‘See to it, Mollie.’
The maid returned promptly. ‘’Tis Mistress Barns well in a right old lather, sir. Shall I bring her in?’
‘Of course. What on earth is she doing abroad on such a foul night?’
The woman was dripping with water, her face half hidden beneath her hood in the flickering candlelight. She hovered at the door.
‘Come quickly, sire… to my house. There’s been a terrible accident. Hurry, you are sorely needed there.’
Not used to such a disturbance at this late hour, the Parson dried his feet, saw to his hose and leather boots, put on his bad weather cape and black tricorn hat.
‘What’s all the fuss? Why such secrecy?’
He was puzzled by her demeanour, the way she rushed him across the green to the snicket gate through the churchyard path, out to the stream bridge and into the orchard. He caught his arm on the swing and jumped back as if he had been assaulted. They hurried to the courtyard where a torch was burning with a smell of tar. He saw Abel Barnswell prostrate, face down on the cobbles with a hedge cleaver stuck between his shoulders. Ephraim sat curled up by the stable door, weeping.
‘Dear God! Who did this?’ The Parson knelt down to see if the man was still breathing but his spirit had long departed from the sturdy body which lay stiff on the ground.
‘We do not know… do we, Ephraim? He must have been here when we returned from the outing. We went straight into the kitchen to prepare his meal for we were late. I was too busy to come out into the yard. Ephraim saw to the fire and was with me so it was not until it grew dark that we became anxious and went to look for him. Is that not so, Ephraim? We found the master with that… thing in his back. I did not know what to do.’
‘You should have raised the hue and cry and called for the constable or church warden to verify your findings.’
‘I came to you, sir. I could not think straight. Who would do such a terrible deed? Parson Thomas, I beseech you, help us… What do we do next? What’s to become of us?’ A look of pure terror passed over her face.
‘You must go straightway to the Parsonage. Borrow some dry clothing and Mollie will make up a bed for you somewhere. A warm drink… some medicinal brandy to warm you. Go, take the boy. Tell them I sent you and will call the constable myself. Go, child, God speed!’
He watched Hetty drag the silent boy into the house. They emerged shortly afterwards with a bundle on a pole, setting off through the rain down to the green.
Oh, God in Heaven, she lies! Every word has the ring of careful fabrication about it. The day has come… dies irae, dies illa… I knew it would come to this ere long. Now what am I to do? Denounce her and let them both hang on the gallows for that worthless piece of shite? Worthy no doubt in thine eyes, oh Lord, but not in mine.
Ben Thomas knew the moment he saw the body that this was foul murder and he need look no further than one of the pair for the culprit. Hetty Barnswell’s control was remarkable, that firm fixed stare, not a tear, no flinching at the sight of the wound gaping and the blood oozing from the back of her husband’s waistcoat. Which of them had struck him? Could a child have such strength? Did it matter? They would both surely be found guilty and she would shield her child from the wrath to come as he surely must shield her…
He knew when he saw the blackberries strewn like rubies in the torchlight across the yard, mingling with the dark blood.
He knew there must have been a vicious argument and one violent act too many. Control had snapped, unleashing years of pent up fury, lending strength and accuracy to the hand on this sharp weapon.
He knew for he had the Bagshott knowing without words. He knew mother and child would both hang unless he could think of some way to save them… Perhaps she could plead insanity but who would testify to this, knowing her to be the calmest and most rational of creatures, born of gentry and of careful manners at all times? Perhaps she could claim to be witli child but the team of matrons who would examine her carefully would find her barren and it would go even harder on her. Perhaps she could flee the district at once but then suspicion would fall immediately upon them both and they would be hunted as outlaws, vagrants living on the mercy of poor law charity. Her funds would not last long.
Oh, Hetty! What must be done to rescue you? The Reverend Benjamin Thomas knew he must perjure his soul and lie.
*
Ephraim watched his mother searching for seed heads in the flower garden, fussing with arrangements in a jug for her painting. He watched her tongue darting in and out of her mouth like a snake when she concentrated on her brush work. They sat by the stream watching the water rush over the stones. She was free now to conduct her household as she pleased and he saw some colour in her pale face. She was free from Iron Man, now bound fast in a wooden box under the soil.
Ephraim could still feel the fury inside him, the fury which had made him grab the nearest heavy tool with which to beat Iron Man as hard as he could. He had done a terrible thing but Mother said nothing to him about it and the Parson told lies. Sometimes he wanted to blurt out the awful truth but his voice was silenced since that hour. Not one word had he uttered such was the shock of it.
Mother said they were going far away to forget this place and must take only basic necessities for the journey. The fund would stretch to pay for their sea passage. The journey would be hard and they would never return. Ephraim was glad in his heart. No more school, no more gossip and whispering, no more beatings, no more fear. He scribbled his questions on scraps of paper.
‘Will Parson Thomas be coming with us to the new country?’
His mother shook her head. ‘I asked him to escort us but he says he must obey other orders.’
‘Who will look after us?’
‘We must look out for each other now and the Lord above will guide our path.’
The child frowned. Would He who saw everything protect a murderer from due punishment? So far there had been no thunderbolts of swift justice, only a deafening silence around the village and an avoidance of their company.
‘There’s just one journey we must make before we leave, child. One long overdue.’
On the first fine day of October 1770 they set out to walk the three uphill miles to Longhall, past the field men who doffed their hats and turned to their tasks, past the carter, past the wheelwright and his apprentice who waved. They walked through the gateway to Longhall Park where the cattle grazed in open fields beside the gravel drive. In the entrance porch his mother rang the bell. A young maid, seeing the shabbiness of their clothing, shooed them round to the back yard and the kitchen block.
They waited for the servants to answer the door and were ushered into the kitchen hall. Ephraim stood in awe of the place: the roaring fire, the roast on the turning spit with the little dog at the treadwheel going round and round. He had never seen so many pots and pans, busy people scurrying back and forth. The noisy bustle was suddenly hushed by their presence and the servants stood staring and staring at his mother. An old manservant beckoned them aside, shaking his head regretfully.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Mehetebel… she will not receive you today. Perhaps if you were to call some other time? I am sorry.’
‘Think nothing of it, Bailey. It was just on the off chance as I go abroad soon and do not intend to return. I thought perhaps they might wish to glance once at my son here… but please give them these.’
The boy watched her withdraw a scroll of drawings – roses and field sketches, some of her finest flower work.
‘If you would be kind enough to give the Squire and his wife these. I would not like them to think I had wasted a lady’s education…’
Her v
oice broke. She grabbed her son’s arm. Slowly they turned towards the outer door. All clattering of pots and murmured conversation ceased and a hushed, embarrassed silence fell. Only Ephraim saw her tears.
*
In the years that followed the terrible event, Parson Thomas could never ride past a blackberry bush without breaking into a sweat. He crossed himself and prayed that whatever good had come from his lies would glorify God in due course. As he wandered the highways and turnpikes of his new parish, stopping to feed his old nag, preaching in barns and market crosses, begging his supper from the lowly congregations who supported Methody itinerant preachers, he often spoke of sacrifice in the Lord’s service. The world was truly his parish now and his spirit rose above his aching joints, chapped fingers and tissicky cough. He’d left behind the comforts of a regular living for life on the open road. There had been little choice when the scandal broke.
It was his testimony, and his maid’s silence, which saved Hetty. He swore that he had escorted the widow safe to her door and seen for himself the body after it was abandoned by thieves. No one had dared to query the testimony of a man of the cloth, but there had been plenty of gossip and not a little scandal. He allowed rumour at the village pump to suggest the Parson would soon marry the widow. But much as he loved her Ben knew that a union with an old man, grey-haired, stooped and shabby, would never be of Hetty’s choosing but would be done from gratitude only.
How she had begged him to accompany them across the world, to serve on the mission field in the colonies somewhere, but he knew the price he must pay. There was much to be repaired in his lazy life. It was time to return to the field preachers, to the comfort of scripture instead of a fireside. He must devote the rest of what was left of his earthly life to saving souls.