Pitcher was in the malt-house supervising the last stages of the latest brew and Emma was sewing new trim onto the bonnet that Pansy would wear at the garden party. The girls were at their books with the teacher who called to help them with their French lessons, when there was a resounding crash from the part of the house where the rebuilding was under way.
Barrass ran from the cellar with Arthur at his heels to find that a partly demolished wall had sunk into a dusty pile, taking with it the new window frames that Ivor had just finished making. The glass panes standing ready to be installed had all shattered.
While Arthur began to straighten out the mess and the French teacher dealt with Emma by waxing smelling salts to and fro under her nose, Barrass found himself comforting the girls after their fright.
In his new role as an acceptable young man, he observed – coolly at first, and with amusement – the way they gently pushed each other out of the way to be nearest to him. Eventually he was hugging the three of them, with the twins wrapping themselves into his body in a way that aroused feelings he had only just begun to recognize. Violet had stood back a little at first, but eventually even she found a way to be within the reach of his powerful arms.
The cameo was still intact when Emma, fully recovered and curious to understand the simpering and crying from her usually sensible daughters, came into the room. To her credit she said nothing to Barrass, who gave the girls a final comforting hug and then departed, or to the girls who stared after him with such a look of longing in their eyes that she wanted to scream. She simply opened her formidable mouth and shouted for Mr Palmer.
When she explained why Barrass should leave, Pitcher looked serious.
‘But he’s only a boy,’ he began, having recovered some-what from the shock.
‘Yesterday he was a boy, today he is not!’
‘I’ll think about what you say,’ Pitcher promised, wondering how he could keep the boy and appease his wife.
‘I want him out of the house, Mr Palmer, I wouldn’t ever sleep easy in my bed knowing he might be prowling.’
‘I need him here if the work you want is ever to be finished,’ he warned. ‘There’s never been a boy who works as well or as fast. The choice is yours, Mrs Palmer.’
They eventually agreed that he would stay, but only until the work on the new drawing room was completed. That couldn’t wait, not with the party, where they were sure to meet new and exciting friends, so near. A drawing room was essential if Emma’s dream of a social life were to become a reality. But, she warned Pitcher, Barrass must not come further than the bottom of the stairs!
Hearing this, Barrass was more amused than ever. He went about his work pretending not to notice the girls hanging over the banisters and stifling giggles as he plodded to and fro with planks and bricks for the new room. Amusing they might be, but there were other girls to fill his few spare hours, whose mothers were not so anxious.
* * *
Olwen sat on the newly turned earth and planted small, straggly cabbage plants in the well-watered holes she had prepared. She worked at a steady pace, unhurried and apparently content in her boring task. She hummed softly as she pressed the plants firmly into the ground.
The smiling young face did not reveal her disappointment, her eyes were as blue as the sheepbit that had until recently peered out from the grasses, and they were wide and sparkling with no sign of a frown. Her mouth, with pink lips parted slightly, was soft and generous and her forehead was fuller than of late, making her face round, open and with an honesty and an offer of friendliness that gained her affection wherever she went. But today the happiness that showed was a half truth.
Not a moment before, she had heard voices, low and confidential, passing close to where she worked. Raising herself to her knees and peering through the grasses, she had seen the tall, broad figure of Barrass pass by, in neat new cream and blue striped shirt and trousers of brown velvet, clasped tight below the knees with knitted socks. The person he was talking to in such a conspiratorial whisper was Blodwen.
She stood up and for a while their voices were brought back to her by the wind – too faint to be understood, but the tone sufficient to explain the meaning.
‘Blodwen of all people!’ she muttered in disgust, threw the remaining plants into the last hole and kicked the earth impatiently around them. Running at first, softly on bare feet, she followed the strolling, chattering couple, the water-filled leather bucket in her hand. She felt hot, as if her disappointment had fired something inside her, and she pulled apart the braids holding her hair and let it fall. The clean wind from the sea took it and lifted it like a newly opening golden flower.
They were walking with the slow stroll of those with loving on their minds, the slowness a disguise for the impatient intent. Blodwen’s feet almost left the ground as Barrass’s arm tightened occasionally around her. His hand was under her arm, and Olwen knew just where his fingers were wandering.
The pair slithered down a steep sheep track to the beach, where the rocky coastline gave a hundred small and secret coves. Olwen waited on the cliff top some twenty feet above the place the couple had chosen, and waited as Barrass kissed Blodwen and lowered her onto the hard surface of the sun-warmed plateau.
With infinite care, not wanting to land in their laps, she approached the edge, and slowly tilted the bucket, pouring the muddy contents over them. Before they realized what had happened she had followed the water with a shower of small stones which she kicked over the edge with her tender toes.
She scuttled back along the path and was bending over her plants, humming softly to herself, when the bedraggled pair passed by. She increased the volume of her singing, the words appropriate as she reached the chorus:
Sing me soft water a lullaby low,
Sooth me soft water as gently you flow.
Anger assuage as my body’s caressed,
Cleanse me soft water as by you I’m blessed.
It was a song asking the spirit of the spring to calm them with softly flowing water; a wife before her wedding asking to be a patient and loving wife and mother; or an ill-tempered child to be soothed; or someone grieving and unable to find peace of mind.
‘What do you know of water this evening?’ an angry voice called, and pushing aside the tall seed-filled grasses, Barrass stood glaring down at her, his eyes flashing with outrage. His clothes showed dark patches where the water had caught him, and mud streaked his shoulder.
Olwen looked up guilelessly and nodded towards her empty bucket. ‘Only that I am out of water to start these poor plants growing. You can fill it at the spring if you’ve a mind to?’
‘Don’t pretend to have been sitting there in innocence!‘
‘Sitting here? Sitting here? These plants won’t dig themselves into the soil, more’s the pity. Working hard I’ve been and my back’s a-w-ful stiff.’ She rose to her feet and smiled at Blodwen, who was hanging back, half hidden by the broad shoulders of Barrass.
‘Hello, Blodwen, been for a walk, have you? It seems I must walk also, if Barrass is unkind enough to refuse my request.’ She pushed past them on the narrow path that led from the cliff edge garden to her cottage, swinging her thin hips and singing softly, but Barrass called to her to stop.
‘Here, give it to me, I might as well fill your bucket, little slip of a thing that you are. I doubt if you could carry it more than half full.’ There was doubt in his eyes though as he looked at her and added, ‘But a half-filled bucket might have been enough.’
‘Enjoy your walk?’ Olwen asked Blodwen as Barrass set off with the empty bucket.
‘Someone threw water over us, and what Mam will say I daren’t think.’
Olwen was gratified to see that Blodwen’s head had taken most of her share of the muddy water and her once neatly tied hair was falling across her face. She was wearing a most unsuitable dress of pale mauve material, with flowers sewn all around the hem. Olwen looked at it with only a brief flash of guilt.
‘Serves
you right for wearing such a daft dress for walking on the cliffs! And,’ she went on, lowering her voice as Barrass returned, ‘lucky you were that it wasn’t nearer the village or it might not have been just honest muddy water that was thrown!’
* * *
William Ddole stood at his study window watching the carts arriving. Seven so far, varying from the simple flat-backed farm carts locally called gambos, which were pulled by small ponies, to the grander, two-horse affairs – velvet lined, beautifully polished and driven by liveried coachmen who unloaded great boxes of clothes and jewellery for the occupants to array themselves with. Most of the conveyances were small multi-purpose waggons which their owners had decorated for the occasion. The cart containing the Palmers with their three daughters was one of the latter.
Emma had bought some curtains discarded from the living room of a wealthy family. These she and Violet had carefully draped around the edges of the cart to give it an air of grandeur and respectability, Emma dreaming of one day owning a proper carriage in which she and Pitcher would ride with their daughters and, she begged of the Lord above, their daughters’ husbands.
William smiled as he watched the plump and overdressed Emma being helped down by her husband. She brushed herself down as if emerging from some terrible ordeal, then set about fussing over the three girls, straightening their long, full dresses, adjusting their knitted shawls and touching their hair to make sure they looked their best.
Of the four women, William thought Violet benefited most from her mother’s efforts; the young woman had a natural elegance, a way of walking and standing tall, so she gave the impression, even at this distance, of looking the world in the eye and expecting life to treat her as a woman of some importance. He was curious to meet her at this semi-formal occasion.
He waited as other carts, riders and walkers arrived and were bustled inside by the heads of their parties, and saw the efficient way his stable boys dealt with the horses. Then, as the rush of arrivals trickled to a few, he sighed and prepared to meet his guests.
He was not a tall man, and a little overweight, but there was about him a confidence and authority that made him stand out in any company. For the evening party he had not dressed very splendidly, even though his wife had complained that seeing the fine clothes of their host and hostess as well as those of the other guests was an important part of the evening for many. But his apparently casual clothes had been chosen with care. He had intended to be noticeable.
His coat was a dark green cloth with a high, stand-up collar trimmed with green of a lighter shade. He wore breeches which ended in leather riding boots, well polished and very new. His cravat was yellow, the only splash of bright colour on his person apart from the thin band, also yellow, that held his long hair back in a twist. He knew from experience that as darkness fell it would be easily seen.
His face was ruddy, his hands and nails marked with work and he looked what he was, a successful farmer on a small estate, whose wealth was not sufficient to exclude him from an occasional day’s work. The house had been built by his grandfather, but having given up the business interests he had inherited to buy an army commission for his son, William no longer had the means to live in the way his grandfather and father had. But he had found a contented balance between the richness of their lives and the poor conditions of his tenants.
He walked through the house which contained some beautiful furniture as well as simple, locally made pieces, touching some and stroking their smooth, polished surfaces, using his admiration of them as an excuse to delay the inevitable boredom of making himself pleasant to people who were too shy of him to be the natural selves they were when he met them on their own home ground. He wondered idly why Dorothy had insisted on the party; it was an ordeal for everyone, this mixing of the moderately rich and the poor.
There was a nervousness about him that suggested more than the prospect of meeting a few local people. He straightened up and prepared himself for the smiles he would show his guests, and stepped out into the slightly overcast afternoon.
The invitation was for four o’clock, when the well-to-do would have finished their main meal and before the working classes were ready for theirs. As he walked across the grass to find his wife, William could hear the anxious scolding of Florrie the cook, making sure all her efforts were presented properly and at the correct time. His smile was a natural one when he went to stand by Dorothy’s side.
‘Where have you been, William?’ she demanded in a disapproving whisper. ‘I’ve been making excuses for you for an hour!’
‘Watching them all arrive,’ he whispered back. ‘A lovely sight, all in their best, all so pleased that you invited them. Tell me, why did you invite so many? Half of these I hardly know.’
‘I felt the house needed a cheerful few hours. I needed a few cheerful hours.’
‘There is nothing wrong, is there?’ he asked and she shook her head and smiled, looking down at him in a fond way before turning to greet a late arrival.
He watched her go – then his heart gave a crazy leap as a shadow passed over and on her face he saw the clear image of a skull. He turned away, reeling in his agony. It had happened again, the thing he dreaded. Twice before he had received that same vision, on his baby daughter who had not survived to her third birthday, which they had at that moment been planning to celebrate, and on his mother, just a month before she died.
He tried to force the fear away from him, turning and hurrying back to the house, afraid that his wife would see his fear and wonder at it. The vicar had told him it was simply a symptom of his own anxiety and not a sign from God that he must prepare to lose a loved one. He sustained himself with a brandy from his cupboard.
It was only his imagining, he must believe that. But it was impossible for him to put aside the dread and fear. He had guessed, in spite of her constant denials, that she was ill, but the face of death he had seen on her was something he was not ready to look at. How could he? Dorothy had been his love since they were children, his life would have no meaning without her. He took several deep breaths then set his face in a smile before rejoining her.
He and Dorothy spent the next hour trying to persuade everyone to mix with others, to make new acquaintances. But although they managed sometimes to split the closely huddled groups of family or friends long enough for strangers to exchange a few pleasantries, they quickly lost confidence and scuttled back to their own like disturbed field mice at harvest time, pressing together and looking out on the world from the safety and assurance of their own kin.
They talked nervously and stared uncomfortably at others doing the same. William hid his irritation and his desire that they were all gone back to their homes, and chatted with everyone, apparently concerned only with his duties as host. He often stood alongside Dorothy, but he refused to look at her for fear of seeing again the terrible sign of death on her beloved features.
Violet was one they tried to encourage to leave her mother’s side and seek fresh conversations. They talked to her briefly, then, having introduced her to Edwin Prince, a local farmer, left her, to walk with their daughter Penelope.
‘This, my dear Penelope, is hard work,’ William sighed. ‘Why won’t these people move and make new acquaintances when the opportunity is offered? I can’t think what your mother was doing, trying to make a social evening with such people. Kind as they are, they will go from here without having learnt a thing and leave your mother and me exhausted.’
‘Wait till the dancing,’ Penelope laughed. ‘That will break a few inhibitions. I think Mother feels it her duty to make a contribution to the local people, Father, and would like to encourage a greater friendliness. She says they all work so hard and for such long hours, their lives are spent without having done anything but work and worry. She feels it her duty to do something to alleviate their short and difficult lives when she can.’
Her words were ominous. Did Dorothy dwell on death? Was she aware that death walked beside her? He looked arou
nd for something to help take his morbid thoughts away.
‘There is someone you should meet, my dear,’ William said, and Penelope glanced across the crowded garden to see a well-dressed young man just entering through the side gate.
‘John,’ William called. ‘So pleased you could come. May I introduce you. Penelope dear, this is John Maddern, a partner in some new business ventures of mine who is just arrived from London. John, my daughter, Penelope.’
He left the young couple talking to Dorothy and wandered slowly towards the house. It was hardly six o’clock yet the day was darkening. He called to Dorothy,
‘My dear, shouldn’t we start on the food? If it rains we’d be hard put to find room for all these people inside.’
Trestle tables had already been set up under the trees and spread with white linen cloths. He watched as Florrie and her assistants began scurrying to and fro with dishes and platters of food. Cooked meats and vegetables arrived at the same time that boys were bringing the last of the chairs. As people stood to approach the table, the seats in which they had been sitting were taken by the young boys hired for the evening to help serve, and placed with the rest at the tables. William sat beside his wife and started a conversation with the people around him, but he frequently glanced at his watch, dropping it back into his pocket and hoping that no one, noticing his obsession with time, would interpret it as boredom.
The meal lasted for two hours, then a dozen musicians trooped into the garden and settled themselves to play. Dorothy, having failed to find William, began the dancing with John Maddern, then they separated and John sought Penelope while Dorothy, unable yet again to find William, chose Carter Phillips, one of the local farmers who earned extra money by delivering and carrying for local people.
William slipped into the house and ran up to his room, hoping no one had noticed his disappearance. He pulled off the brightly coloured cravat and braid and changed from his shining new boots into an ancient, well-worn pair which he had hidden at the back of a cupboard. When he left the house, with darkness shadowing the scene, the lanterns in the dancing area emphasized the blackness where the light did not reach. He moved cautiously until he was no more than another shadow.
Summer’s Last Retreat Page 7