Summer’s Last Retreat

by Summer's Last Retreat (retail) (epub)

  She slapped her whip towards him.

  ‘Get me on. I don’t care if you have to use the block and tackle. Get me on. Tie me if necessary, but get me on!’

  She took it slowly at first, the horse patient in spite of the friskiness of the newly released. Then she pressed her stick-like knees against its flanks and urged it on. She nearly fell as they turned a bend in the lane, but by crouching over the horse’s neck felt more secure. She shouted for it to go faster and faster until, as strength failed her, she aimed it at a hedge. She flew through the air with a curling, rolling motion, as light as a dandelion head, and as the horse landed gracefully on the other side, her body rested among the branches of the hawthorn and was completely still, her head at an impossible angle.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Although they had been expecting it, hour by hour, minute by minute, Dorothy’s death was a shock to William and Penelope. William went with the bier and a party of servants to bring home her body, then he closed himself in his room and refused to see even the maid who wanted to rebuild the fire. Penelope went to find Kenneth, to send a letter to her brother who was serving somewhere in the Americas on the service of His Majesty King George III.

  Penelope did not hurry back. Dressed in clothes of black and grey, she could not face the further greyness of the house in mourning. She wandered up the cliff path towards Olwen’s home. The girl was busy in the Ddole kitchen, but her mother, Mary, was someone to whom Penelope felt drawn at this lonely time.

  ‘Miss Penelope, come in for goodness’ sake and warm yourself, frozen you are, without a good coat across your shoulders.’ Mary ushered her inside the small, cosy room and seated her near the roaring fire. She busied herself near the hearth, preparing a cup of tea, in the only china cup she possessed, which she kept for special occasions. ‘Drink this, you need warming inside and out.’ She took the thin shawl from Penelope’s shoulders, giving her instead a thick woven blanket.

  ‘My mother is dead,’ Penelope said softly.

  ‘Yes, the news reached us before middle day,’ Mary replied softly. ‘Pity for her, but she was so ill and in pain, best she’s safe in the arms of Jesus, her suffering done.’

  ‘But what will I do?’ Penelope looked at her, eyes filled with the need for tears, her mouth sagging a little as she pleaded for some guidance.

  ‘You’ll do what your father needs you to do of course.’ Mary spoke more briskly, sensing the need for matter-of-fact advice rather than maudlin sympathy. ‘You will carry the burden of the household until arrangements can be made. You’re young, my dear, but very capable I’m sure.’

  ‘I could be swamped by it all.’ Penelope’s eyes were wide with distress.

  ‘But you won’t be. When things have settled, your father will make arrangements for someone to run the house and you’ll be free to marry your John Maddern – if that is what you want,’ she added curiously as a pained expression crossed the girl’s face. ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘It’s what my mother wanted.’

  Mary said no more. She refilled the girl’s cup and offered food, but sensed that she wanted to talk more than eat, so Mary sat, rocking Dic, who was restless with the discomfort of cutting his second pair of teeth. After a while Penelope put down the cup and asked,

  ‘You are happy, you and Spider?’

  ‘I don’t think about it, so I suppose I must be! When we decided to spend our lives together, he was not a rich man, living day to day with what he earned from the unpredictable and cranky fish shoals. He promised me all I needed and much of what I wanted. I think he has kept that promise. In return, I promised to care for and love his children and give him a home of comfort, love and good food. I think he is not dissatisfied with my half of the bargain.’

  ‘You are happy.’ Penelope looked around the simply furnished and overcrowded room. ‘I would have so much more, but perhaps, with John I would not be so content.’

  ‘Settling for comfort and enough money to keep the worries at bay is what many would gladly accept.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Penelope stood to leave, handing the precious cup back into Mary’s hands. Mary watched her go, a sadness for the girl making her hug her baby and be glad she had no such decisions to make. A simple life brought few surprises but many compensations in its lack of the need for brave decisions. The next meal, the day’s tasks and she was done, sleep coming easily, contentment so normal she rarely thought of it. She waved as the girl disappeared from sight. I think she has helped me more than I helped her, she thought, as she began to prepare a nourishing and filling meal for when Spider and Dan returned from the tide.

  * * *

  Penelope wandered back to Ddole House where teeming servants were preparing once again for hordes of visitors, this time to say goodbye to the mistress of the house. She went to her room and only then realized she still wore the blanket lent to her by Mary. She would give it to Olwen, or perhaps walk over again to return it. The poor house on the cliffs offered something she seemed to lack. Then she thought of the threat to take the house from the family, and decided that as her father was in no mood to discuss the situation, she might as well go and talk to John. He was not what she desired for a life partner, but he would willingly help her in this.

  She called Olwen away from her work and they walked through the fields to where John was living in Henry’s cottage.

  ‘No matter who lives here from now on, it will always be Henry’s cottage, won’t it?’ Olwen chattered as they approached the neat, whitewashed building.

  John was in the small living room, in his neatness already a part of the surroundings. He called for Bessie to take their coats and ordered tea, and then left them while he took the papers on which he was working to another room.

  Penelope shared her enjoyment of the pictures on the walls with Olwen.

  ‘I think they must have been brought by Mr Maddern together with the fine carpet and hangings,’ she explained, but Bessie, overbearing her, disagreed.

  ‘Oh, no, Mistress, they belonged to Henry Harris. Very fine aren’t they?’

  ‘Indeed. I did not imagine him as a collector of beautiful paintings,’ Penelope said

  ‘Not a collector, Mistress, Mr Henry did each and every one of them himself.’

  Penelope was surprised.

  ‘But why did he not tell anyone?’ she asked as she re-examined one of a woodland glade filled with bluebells that particularly appealed to her.

  ‘Afraid of being laughed at. What a waste of a talent. Like the vicar is telling us, a talent, like the money in the parable, is there to be used and developed.’

  ‘It’s very sad that we found out too late to do anything about this.’

  ‘But not too late to enjoy them,’ John said as he returned. ‘You can choose which you would like for your new home, my dear.’

  Hurriedly changing the subject, Penelope asked John for his advice on the ‘vexing problem of Mary and Spider’s cottage’.

  He looked at Olwen, head down in what was, for her, a very subdued and anxious attitude.

  ‘I think, my dear, that is something we should discuss when your father is recovered somewhat.’

  ‘Take them from their home and they would be destitute. Without a hearth and proper warming food, Spider would soon be too ill to work and then they would all weaken. We see it happen so often, and despite the best endeavours of the council, people, even whole families, die.’ Penelope saw Olwen flinch but was determined to persuade John to intervene. ‘I think if we continue with the plan to take their home, I will have to offer them a share of my own.’

  John smiled, the rare relaxation warming his eyes and softening his firm mouth. But he shook his head.

  ‘That will not be necessary, my dear, and that is all I will say until we have discussed it with your father.’

  * * *

  The funeral waggon was followed by almost all the villagers, the line of people fanning inwards across the fields as people left their s
cattered homes to join the mourning procession. William stood with his daughter in the small church and beside the grave, stony-faced and gaunt.

  ‘It’s as if his spirit left with hers,’ Mary whispered to Spider as, with clothes still smelling of recently caught fish, they joined the throng.

  Dan was with them, his eyes constantly searching for and finding those of Enyd. Olwen stood with the rest of the servants from Ddole House, wondering where Barrass had got to, and if he had been turned away. John Maddern stood beside Penelope and her father, his sober expression hiding his excitement. Today, when all the crowds had gone, he had some cheering news for his friend.

  * * *

  John found William later that evening sitting in his wife’s bedroom, staring sightlessly at the empty bed. When John broke into his reverie he stood and punched a dent in the pillow, unable to bear its neatness.

  ‘William, I have news that will brighten the shadows just a little.’

  ‘Not now, John, this isn’t the day for business.’

  ‘Not even to be told that I have found your missing money?’

  William raised his eyes from the bed and looked at his friend, raising a quizzing eyebrow.

  ‘Is this a joke to break me out of my melancholy, John? I warn you, today it cannot be done.’

  ‘I found your money and the explanation of its disappearance in Henry Harris’s house – at least, your daughter did. Penelope noticed that the under-stair cupboard was of smaller measurements inside than out. I searched and found papers and boxes of money and promissory notes.’

  For the first time since a shepherd had found Dorothy’s body, William’s expression became animated.

  ‘But why?’ he asked.

  ‘I do not know for certain, but I suspect that as he was getting old, and had fears of losing his strongest supporter in Dorothy, he made everything about the accounts as difficult as he was able, hoping that you would not dismiss him.’

  ‘But I had no intention of dismissing him – although, yes, I admit he was becoming forgetful and I considered taking on a younger person. But to help him, not to replace him. I should have told him.’

  ‘He feared poverty, abandonment, the few years left to him lonely and useless ones. So, he refused cash and took promissory notes, gradually removed all monies from your banks, paid in cash when accounts became due, and generally muddled things up, like eggs after a housewife’s whisk, so no one but he could unscramble them.’

  They talked long into the night, with John showing William the lists of monies due and offering to travel around on the morrow to claim the payment of the bills of hand, and settle all the overdue accounts.

  ‘Thank you, John for your honesty and friendship. I am ever grateful.’

  ‘Then may I beg a favour?’ John asked, that rare smile suffusing his features. ‘It is not really honest, but a small enough thing in itself.’

  ‘Anything, my dear friend, anything.’

  ‘May I tell Penelope that we no longer plan to demolish Spider and Mary’s house, and that it was due in some part to my persuasions?’

  * * *

  On the following morning John set out carrying a large leather bag. Borrowing one of William’s horses, he went around the village and the town settling accounts and receiving overdue payments. It was dark when he reached home, and a frost was sparkling on the cobbled yard in the thin light of a D-shaped waxing moon. He had been tempted to go at once to tell Penelope of the change of plan, wanting her to be able to give the family the good news, but he had held his patience, the work for William must be attended to first. Tomorrow he would tell her and perhaps they would go together and share the pleasant task. He called for water to wash himself, and fell into bed exhausted but content.

  On the following morning he rose early and set off for Ddole House. Today he would persuade Penelope to name the day on which they would marry. He felt stirrings of excitement at the prospect. She was comely and capable, what more could he ask? That she was a mite unwilling he did not see as a problem; he was certain that his persuasion would be as enjoyable as it would be successful.

  * * *

  She was as delighted with his news as he had foreseen, and happily agreed to go with him to tell Mary and Spider. They rode together, their horses having to press against each other in narrow places as he was unwilling to move from her side. He glanced admiringly at her as she chattered brightly about how she would word the announcement, smiling gaily as she imagined the couple’s pleasure and relief.

  Her hair began to escape from its habitual plait, so that an early and over-bright sun picked out red tints that fascinated him. She wore riding clothes of black, bought for mourning her mother, but the glow in her cheeks and the bright lights in her hazel eyes made the sombre clothes less than stark, seeming to add to her contrasting vividness.

  Penelope felt warm towards him. Since the death of her mother and the discovering of Henry Harris’s secret, he was more relaxed, and his expression, usually so dour, had become that of a man who found her pleasing. She began to see him with less than previous doubts. Perhaps after all he might not be an over-serious husband too wrapped up in his business affairs to care for her properly, they might even be companions in the way her parents had been. She smiled at him, a dazzling, shared smile tinged with a hint of a closer relationship to come.

  When they called on Mary, he stood back and allowed Penelope to tell the good news, then he added,

  ‘It is due entirely to Miss Penelope. Her sharp eyes and great intelligence saw something I and many others had missed. I cannot explain how the reprieve came about and you must not ask. Sufficient to say that William, who regretfully thought to move you to a new home, has now no need to make any such change.’

  Mary curtsied to Penelope who laughingly asked that instead of thanks, she and John would like to be served with some of her excellent tea and bake-scones, which she could smell cooking on the griddle near the fire.

  ‘Oh! And burning most like!’ Mary gasped, running to save them. Penelope followed her in, and stopped with surprise as the large frame of Barrass stood from a corner seat to greet her.

  ‘Miss Penelope, I – I regret hearing of the death of your mother,’ he said, and John stood, with a hand on the top of the door lintel, wondering why the boy was so familiar.

  ‘Go if you please,’ he said sternly, ‘we wish to talk.’

  With another moist-eyed look of sorrow for Penelope, Barrass thanked Mary for her hospitality and pushed past John to stand in the winter sun.

  Penelope, from the semi-dark of the room, looked at him standing there, uncowed by John’s dismissal, the low sun a glowing nimbus about his eclipsing silhouette. Inexplicably the morning was darker for his leaving, the joy of the ride with John scarcely remembered. A coldness filled her as she looked again at the stern face of John, disapproval showing in every inch of him. She had been foolish to imagine that she and John could ever have a loving relationship. Not while there was Barrass.

  * * *

  Penelope had further news of Barrass a few days later, when she met Olwen at the pantry

  ‘Have you seen Barrass of late?’ Penelope asked.

  ‘Yes, Miss Penelope, he visits with my mother often, since no one else will either speak to him or feed him,’ Olwen said in her forthright manner.

  ‘It is not my doing, Olwen.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m forgetting my place again. I never will remember how I’m supposed to talk different to you than to others.’

  Penelope smiled. ‘As long as my father doesn’t hear us I don’t think it matters.’

  ‘Will you marry John Maddern?’ Olwen asked. ‘Rich he is but I hope you don’t because I hear that he is moving to London so if you do marry him I won’t see you and I’ll miss talking with you.’ She drew in a long breath after the non-stop speech and leaned against the wall to relieve the strain of holding a heavy cheese.

  Penelope called for one of the boys to carry it for her.

  ‘Wh
en you go home tonight, I will send a cheese for your mother. We have plenty and she will be glad of extra.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Olwen frowned. ‘You are kind to us, but that is not why I will miss you,’ she said, her blue eyes staring, willing Penelope to believe her.

  ‘If our roles were reversed—’ and they almost were, Penelope thought to herself ‘—I am sure you would be as kind to me.’

  ‘Would you mind if instead of giving all the extra cheese to Mam we took some to Barrass? He would love a cheese, and only has what scraps Arthur can occasionally find for him. I fear he will have webbed feet soon, for all he seems to eat is fish and an occasional loaf of bread.’

  ‘Not a word then,’ Penelope whispered. ‘We will go tomorrow.’

  * * *

  They went across the fields loaded with a cheese and several cakes and loaves. They had waited until William and John were out about their business and stole through the yard like thieves, giggling like children at the furtiveness.

  When they reached the cliff above the cave, they called softly, but there was no reply.

  ‘I’ll go down and wake him,’ Olwen said. ‘Lazy he’s getting to be sleeping this late.’ But the cave was empty. She made several trips down the precarious path with the food, then they departed, disappointment making them silent.

  It was Arthur who told them where to find him.

  ‘Swansea he is. Gone to talk to them at the sorting office. Ben Gammon is sick, see, and Barrass is after his job.’

  ‘But he isn’t old enough?’ Penelope said.

  ‘That won’t stop him. Old enough to father children, he can convince them he is past twenty for sure. Anyway, he isn’t sure how old he is, what with his mother being dead and no one bothering to remember.’

  The girls walked back to Ddole House, Olwen pleased that he was at least close to achieving his dream, but afraid that it would take him away from her. Penelope was wondering if she could find an excuse to go into Swansea and ‘accidentally’ meet him.