by William Hunt
The low-lying meadows below Madam’s Wood were well watered and lush. A mile to the west, tried and tested flood banks had withstood the Severn’s course and temperament for many a long year.
But every half century or so, exceptional high spring tides running up river vied with exceptional floodwaters running down. Then the flood defences were breached and all became a vast inland lake. Evermore to be passed down in the annals of folk memory for generations to come.
More usually, the seasonal winter rains ran harmlessly off the estate’s high ground, and seeped across the meadows creating a strip of marshland that abutted and spread wide along the eastern side of the Severn flood banks.
Known as Moorend, the reed beds here grew wild and provided sanctuary for all manner of wildfowl. At this time of year the booming courtship call of the bittern could be distinctly heard over a mile distant.
Far above on the hilly western horizon lay the barely trodden track ways of the Forest of Dean; wherein the Pine Martin scampered freely and unopposed through the tree line. Whilst deep inside the caves and ancient hollowed out oaks of the Wye Valley, those few remaining wildcat hissed and spat their defiance to all that ventured near.
Amid such tranquillity of the Gloucestershire countryside, the two young riders made their ascent over gently rising ground toward the summit of Windmill Hill.
But the peace of that late afternoon was broken by urgent cries and frantic movement in a nearby cornfield. The riders pulled up and watched the commotion taking place.
Toby broke into a wide grin. “Well, I’ll be. Cows in the corn.”
One glance told the story. A gate had been pushed over by a small herd of restless heifers. Only the two posts remained as sentinels’ guarding the gaping entrance.
Hot in pursuit, a small gang of estate workers attempted to head back the herd from whence they came. But by now the spirited heifers were caught up with the excitement of the occasion, and showed no inclination to return.
“Ought we to render some assistance?” queried Rupert, somewhat unsure as to what constituted a proper course of action in such matters.
“Well, unless you wish to see estate revenues trampled underfoot. I would most emphatically say yes,” answered Toby.
Rupert was persuaded by this sound argument, “Then let’s do it!”
“Huzzah!” shouted Toby gleefully.
“The race is back on.” And horses were promptly spurred up towards the scene of the mishap.
Grappling with this potentially disastrous situation were two farmhands: George Bell and Peter Rastall. Just moments earlier they’d enlisted the help of two passing milkmaids to help round up the straying cattle. But the bonneted maids wearing long blue linen skirts and white aprons found the going heavy.
“Go on. Get after ’em! Step lively!” exhorted George Bell.
“We can’t go faster,” retorted an exasperated maid.
Peter Rastall conceded the point. “Melody’s right, George. This ain’t no job for a maidy.”
“They’re all we got,” retorted George Bell. And further instructions came bellowing forth.
“Go to it! Run faster Melody, and you too Charlotte.”
“Very well, I will.” Melody yelled back, and promptly gathered her petticoats, apron and skirt above her knees. Then after draping the folds of clothing over the crook of her arm, she broke into a graceful run… her bare white legs flashing across the green cornfield. The other three were stunned into momentary silence.
George Bell was the first to find his voice. It was his daughter after all.
“MELODY GIRL! WHAT ARE YOU A THINKIN’ OF!”
Just then, the rhythmic clump of horses’ hooves announced the arrival of Toby and Rupert at the gateway. Both young men were mightily surprised at this wholly unexpected display of flesh by the young village lass.
“Master Rupert! Ah sir!”
George Bells consternation at this most unhappy turn of events was complete. Peter Rastall bit his lip and shook his head perplexedly. The Viscount’s son could not have picked a more awkward time to pay a visit.
“I think you need a hand here!” called out Rupert distractedly gazing all the while at the headstrong Melody, now surging far ahead of the lagging Charlotte in pursuit of the errant heifers.
“Uh. Don’t trouble yourself, Master Rupert. Tis but a trifle soon put right sir…” George Bell vainly attempted to gloss over the fraught situation unravelling before their eyes.
“Nonsense man, we don’t want the crops ruined. Do we?”
With that, Rupert took command. After briefly consulting with Toby, it was decided to traverse the edge of the cornfield until the cattle were overtaken, then ride out to block off further excursions.
“Are you up for it, Toby?” enquired Rupert expectantly.
“There’s no better cowherd in the parish than I,” Toby laughingly replied. But before the roundup commenced, George Bell and Peter Rastall were given their marching orders.
“You two follow on behind, and flank the herd back into the field.”
“Yes, Master Rupert.”
Without further ado, the two interlopers set off and rapidly overtook the straggling maids.
“We’re here to help,” Toby reassured them. Recovering from the shock of proffered assistance from a most unexpected quarter, the maids quickly adjusted to the new overall command. But Melody unabashed… retained her state of immodesty whilst the roundup proceeded to a chorus of shouts and yells:
“Yah! Yah! Hup! Hup!”
In no time at all, the wayward cattle were driven out of the cornfield. As the last heifer ran past the open gateway, the horsemen and farm workers gathered together at the gate entrance. High and low now took stock of one another in mutually shared curiosity.
An erstwhile group was thrown together in an unplanned and spontaneous act of eclectic teamwork, which under the normal run of day-to-day events would never have arisen.
But Rupert and Toby found their eyes drawn ever to – the now modestly attired- Melody Bell. Boldly she returned their gaze. Her smiling face – shaded from the bright afternoon sunlight by her straw bonnet – gave her an air of added allure. Rupert finally recovered his composure and broke the awkward silence.
“Not too much damage done I trust?” he observed looking across the cornfield. George Bell took his cue.
“Not at all, Master Rupert. We’re obliged to you both,” a relieved George Bell replied touching his forehead with a one-fingered salute.
“I suggest you attend the gate as soon as possible,” advised Toby.
“That will be our very next task, Master Toby.”
“Then all seems to be well,” concluded Rupert and quite properly made to continue his journey.
Suddenly, as a bolt from the blue, Melody spoke clearly and directly to the Viscount’s son. “Oh! And a very happy birthday to you, Master Rupert.”
A perceptible sigh of dismay rose from the ranks of the bystanders. This was a shocking wilful act of disrespectful familiarity. Rupert himself was taken aback; but realising it would be churlish to ignore the maid’s well wishes, he reined up. Besides, he was surprised at her inside knowledge.
“Thank you. But how were you privy to this, I wonder?”
“Oh, tis common talk in all the gentleman’s big houses. Everybody knows. And it’s only right we should pay our respects too, Master Rupert.”
Rupert rapidly took stock of this extraordinary situation. But enough was enough. Any further dalliance would hopelessly compromise his position - and in front of these field workers too.
“Then, I’m most gratified to hear my tenants hold me in such high regard… Good day to you.”
Doffing his hat he brought the encounter to a close, and promptly set off at a canter toward the summit of Windmill Hill. For once it was Toby’s turn to play catch up.
The farmhands respectfully watched them go. But as soon as the riders were safely out of earshot (and with the obvious approval of both Cha
rlotte and Peter Rastall), the wrath of George Bell descended heavily upon his daughter.
“Well, you are a brazen wench, Melody and no mistake! I’ve never heard the like. Why you’d make a soldier blush.”
“I only wished him a happy birthday, Father,” Melody replied smiling serenely.
Charlotte was also peeved, motivated in part by jealousy. Melody had the lads of the entire village chasing after her. Now she was becoming too big for her boots by far.
“It don’t do to be getting your hopes up there, Melody. The very idea is wickedness itself,” Charlotte clucked in righteous indignation.
Peter Rastall was in complete agreement with the others. “Charlotte’s right! That wasn’t at all proper, Melody.”
He jerked his thumb in the direction of the now distant riders. “Best keep out of that cornfield gal.”
“Oh, why should you care, Twilight?” Melody retorted petulantly.
In the end, George Bell called a halt to the altercation. There was the pressing matter of the broken gate to attend to. Close inspection revealed the gate was smashed beyond repair… A replacement was needed.
For the time being it was decided to block the gateway with a hay cart. Haymaking was still a week or more away, so the cart could be spared for the moment. But the ever-turning seasons afforded no let up. Time was of the essence.
But before the two men departed for Home Farm (where all were presently employed), there was one final job for Charlotte and Melody.
“You two guard the break till we get back,” said George Bell. Then donning a severe countenance, he made straight for his outspoken daughter.
“And list here to me, Melody!” George Bell spoke sternly into her face.
“If them two gentlemen come by. Keep a still tongue. Not a word. Do you hear?” Melody rolled her eyes in a bored manner and joined Charlotte at the gateway. But they too had duties to fulfil, and sought to remind the men of such.
“Be quick mind!” called out the maids, “We’ve got milking soon.”
“Bah!”
By the time the summit of Windmill Hill had been reached, the horses were lathered up from the hard ride. Although a modest hillock, the south sloping incline to the summit was gentle, and made for a lengthy way to go.
At the promontory, the hill sharply dropped away and ran on down to the banks of the Severn a hundred feet below. And from this vantage point, a sweet view was afforded of the surrounding countryside beyond.
The windmill from which the hill took its name no longer stood. Wind sail don’t always tum, and of late years the Hardcourt fields of wheat and barley had grown large and demanding. The burgeoning Stroud valley corn mills, constantly driven at all times by the fast-flowing streams running off the Cotswolds, had long ago won the contest as to where the champion resource lay.
Rupert and Toby alighted, and took in the view. Away to the north stood the market town of Gloucester, wherein crooked timbered houses clustered around the church spires and towers. All in their turn dwarfed by the majestic Gloucester Cathedral. Its Cotswold stone tower gleamed golden-yellow against the azure summer sky.
But for the two young men, pre-occupied by prior events, the sights of Gloucester held no fascination that day. Toby launched forthwith into the topic of immediate interest.
“I say that wench. She’s a bold one.”
Rupert feigned indifference, “So, it would appear.”
“Melody, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Melody Bell,” Rupert replied… just a little too eagerly.
Toby grinned knowingly, “Oh-ho! I see. Me thinks Rupert is smitten?” Rupert flushed with embarrassment, and hastened to pass off his gaffe with a plausible explanation.
“Toby! I am perfectly aware of the names of those employed at Home Farm, as too their families. Indeed, it would reflect poorly upon me if it was otherwise. Do you not think?”
Toby adopted an apologetic air as one chastened:
“Why, of course. Please do forgive me my tactless remarks, Rupert.” Then he paused, as if taken by a sudden thought.
“Ah, but perhaps, dear friend, you can enlighten me. Who then was the other wench? Why, I didn’t catch her name at all.”
Toby gazed with wide-eyed innocence awaiting an answer. Rupert hopelessly compromised waved his hand dismissively.
“The conversation grows tiresome”.
Turning abruptly, Rupert walked his mount forward a few more yards to the summit, whilst Toby inwardly smirked at his companion’s discomfort.
In truth, the two young men were growing apart. Their childhood friendship was under strain. How could it be otherwise? Domiciled life at Kings public school had shaped a worldly-wise Toby, which Rupert was beginning to find distasteful. Toby for his part began to perceive the Honourable Rupert Valans as priggish and worthy of bait.
All in all, it hardly augured well for a companionable Grand Tour. But on second thoughts, Toby sought to patch things up and joined Rupert at the summit. For a moment or two, they stood together in silence.
“Just think,” Toby remarked, gazing across the estate. “Your inheritance, one day.”
“Yes,” replied Rupert somewhat mollified. “The land was given to Hubert Du Valance in return for his services by the Conqueror himself.”
Toby gave a wry look.
“We can’t go back that far I’m afraid. The Portlocks made their name soldiering at Gloucester during the great rebellion. That’s when our family began its ascent.”
Rupert smiled and became more relaxed.
“Do you remember, Toby? The last time we were up here together? It was the Christmas hunt.”
Toby nodded happily at the recollection, then he looked wistfully at Rupert, “You know I always envied you being here… Out with the hunt, whilst I was stuck at Kings.”
“But I thought the school had its own beagle pack?” queried Rupert with a slightly puzzled frown.
Toby shrugged, “Chasing the hare on foot, in circles. It’s not quite the same, is it?”
Rupert was bound to agree. Nothing could compare with the excitement of riding on horseback in pursuit of Reynard. You never quite knew what would happen next. And to emphasis the point, he gave a concrete example.
“You know, Toby, I once saw a dog fox turn and run straight through the pursuing pack. The leading hounds doubled back on themselves, and ran into those coming up from behind. In the confusion, the fox got clean away.”
Both young men smiled at the picture conjured up in their minds. Now Rupert pointed out the various estate coverts, but in doing so his eyes located the source of his earlier distraction.
From the high ground, the scene of the impromptu cattle round up was clearly visible. And although a good way distant, the colourful blue and white figures of the dairy maids stood prettily juxtaposed against the hazy green rolling hedgerows.
“Well, the horses are rested. I think it may be as well to return now,” Rupert indicated abruptly. Toby picked up the air of urgency and noted the direction of Rupert’s pre-occupied glances.
“Ah-ha! I see we’ve picked up the scent again – Nimrod.” Ignoring Toby’s jibes, Rupert pulled rank with a terse command. “Help me up, please. There’s a good fellow.”
Toby duly gave Rupert a leg up into the stirrups, then taking advantage of a convenient ant mound, launched himself into his saddle.
As the pair began the downward journey off Windmill Hill, Toby was so moved to break into song:
"Oh, a hunting we will go, a hunting we will go.
We’ll find the fox, and put him in a box.
And never let it go…"
Below the two maids waited impatiently to be relieved of their watch, only to gaze wonderingly towards the sound of distant carolling. A few seconds later the two riders came into view, soon to pass close by. Urgently Charlotte reminded Melody of her earlier instructions.
“Remember what your father said!”
Once again the clumpy clump of the horse’s hooves grew louder
and the two young men drew abreast. Melody gazed steadfastly into the middle distance and spoke not. For their part, Rupert and Toby doffed their hats and passed by.
Afterwards, Toby threw Rupert a look of critical amusement and called out in a chastising manner.
“Well, Sir Galahad. Your prize left unclaimed.. A bold Knight indeed. Ha–Ha!”
But Toby – for all his flippancy – was no less excited by the afternoons encounter. And his outburst bespoke keen disappointment at the lost opportunity of a further dalliance.
Swiftly, the riders departed the field, leaving behind the object of their fancy standing guard at the gateway… her bonneted face triumphantly aglow.
Table Talk
Meanwhile in the drawing room of Hardcourt Hall, a four-handed game of Quadrille was in progress. Seated at the green baize card table, Major Bullimore and the De Moritz’s made up the foursome, and so far, the French party had shown themselves most adept exponents.
“Upon my word, Comte, that daughter of yours plays a remarkable cool-handed game,” the major declared admiringly as the smiling Mlle Rosalyn captured another trick.
The Comte concurred; Mlle Rosalyn was a very accomplished card player indeed. Since their arrival at Hardcourt Hall, it was noticed how easily the French nobles had taken to the Gloucestershire Grand House and its provincial society.
When the servants arrived with refreshments, the players set the cards down and took to the easy chairs surrounding the marble fireplace where Johanna Portlock already lay comfortably reposed on a divan. Afterwards, the servants dispensed the drinks on to a central mahogany table for the newly seated guests.
Just at that moment, Lord Arlingham and Squire Portlock happened to be taking the view from the Elizabethan long window.
“Are Rupert and Toby come?” enquired Johanna Portlock concernedly.
“Not as yet,” replied Squire Portlock, casting his eyes across the grounds.
“Let us hope the lawns fare better upon their return,” His Lordship was moved to remark – “And whilst time affords us Jonus,” he added purposefully. “Now might be an opportune moment to discuss the forthcoming Grand Tour.”