by Sally Wragg
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Very well, then!’ she uttered at last, the magic words Ursula had longed to hear. Her face broke into a wide smile of approval.
‘Oh but thank you. . . . Thank you, Miss Bardwell! That’s simply wonderful. I’ll make sure you won’t regret it!’
‘A trial period only, mind,’ Cynthia Bardwell warned. ‘Shall we say . . . three afternoons a week?’
She could have named any number of mornings, afternoons, evenings even, Ursula was so delighted. A few moments later found her unhitching their shire Clover from the railings outside and climbing back up onto the cart for home, having achieved far more than she would ever have believed possible when she’d set off, earlier that morning. Inside, her heart was singing. Bad as things were with Freddie, she was desperate now to share her success with him.
The short distance to the farm was completed in double-quick time. Throwing down the reins, Ursula jumped down quickly, heading straight for the kitchen where, as she’d expected this time of a morning, Freddie sat drinking coffee with Pru, their farm-hand, the biscuit tin open on the table between them.
He looked up sharply. ‘There you are,’ he said, for some reason sounding angry. ‘I thought you were waiting in for the vet?’
For a moment, Ursula had no idea what he was talking about. And then she remembered, something had been mentioned at breakfast that the vet might, conceivably, call to give the herd the once-over before the winter set in. Freddie and Pru both having their hands tied with the winter planting, it had been made clear it was incumbent on Ursula to keep an eye open for his arrival. She’d taken a chance to go out because, at the time, it hadn’t seemed likely he’d turn up before his morning surgery. Instantly, all her pleasure in her achievement vanished. He might as well have thrown cold water in her face.
‘Have I missed him?’ she asked, sounding subdued.
‘He’s long gone,’ he snapped.
‘I see.’
‘Is that all you have to say? I see? Can’t I trust you for anything any more, Ursula?’
Pru jumped up. ‘I’ll get back to work,’ she muttered awkwardly, throwing Ursula a look of commiseration before hurrying out. Trouble between man and wife, and she had no business with it. Ursula came into the kitchen, lifting the kettle onto the hob, spooning coffee into a cup, finding occupation for her hands because she was in the wrong again and didn’t know what to say.
Only when her emotions were back under control did she turn back towards him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think. Just my luck I missed him.’
Freddie stood up and ran his hand through his hair and she realized now how tired he looked. He worked too hard and she hated the truth that she didn’t pull her weight about the place. It was true, though. She was a millstone around his neck instead of the help she’d always meant to be.
‘Where were you, exactly?’ he asked.
At once, her exuberance returned and her tale spilled out. She couldn’t help it but he had to know how important this was. The battle she’d had, her success, the fact children with so little chance in life would now, miraculously, get one and all the while her gaze was fastened on his face, praying he’d understand. She ran out of steam. There was an odd, tense little silence.
‘Are you quite mad, Ursula?’ he asked, at last.
Her face crumpled. All her hopes and dreams and he hadn’t understood one iota. However far apart they’d grown of late, she hadn’t realized things were quite as bad as this. They didn’t know each other any more, two opposite ends of a spectrum, never designed to meet.
‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ she uttered, plaintively.
Freddie’s look of incredulity deepened. ‘Pleased you’ve encouraged those blasted gypsies to stay even longer and on land that was productive before they arrived to ruin it. Do you think we’re made of money?’
This was too much. ‘Since when has money ever been the most important thing?’ she fired back.
‘Since I’ve had this place to run,’ he snapped, ‘single-handed, if you ask me!’
The words, if uncomfortably too near to the truth, were unforgiveable. Mute with misery, she could only watch as he stalked past her and out, slamming the door behind him so it felt the whole house reverberated from its force. Freddie had always been hot-tempered and so had she. A pair of hotheads together, yet still loving each other desperately – or so she’d thought. Ursula took her coffee over to the table and sank down into a chair. The drink was hot and reviving and did her good but wretchedly brought another thought winging into her consciousness, doing nothing to lift her spirits. She couldn’t now get her head past the cosy scene which had greeted her arrival. Pru and Freddie, heads bent together over their coffee cups, no doubt sharing a joke so Ursula had felt, immediately, she was somehow an intruder. And in her own kitchen too! She put down her cup with a trembling hand. But Freddie had been so right in many respects. Wasn’t it time she faced the truth? Farming was in Pru’s blood. She loved the land. She was far more proficient in the myriad of tasks about the place than Ursula and Freddie must surely know it too. She could guess exactly what he must be thinking and she could hardly blame him.
What a crying shame he hadn’t married Pru instead!
Effecting a quick change from her riding gear, Hettie rushed back downstairs, leaping the bottom three stairs and catapulting into the hall, startling the two adults who stood quietly talking there. Her mother caught firm hold of her arm, frustratingly delaying her.
‘There you are, Hettie!’ she muttered, through gritted teeth. ‘Aren’t you going to say hello to General Hawker, dear?’
‘Hello, General Hawker!’ Hettie responded dutifully and unenthusiastically to the elderly man with the large moustache, dressed in full military uniform, who stood bristling down at her, one brow raised in amused surprise.
‘You will be joining us for dinner tonight?’ Bronwyn prompted.
Delay was painful. Exasperated, Hettie pulled herself free. ‘Oh . . . um . . . I expect so only . . . sorry . . . I can’t stop now! Grandmamma’s waiting. . . .’
‘Whatever are you two up to, now?’ Bronwyn asked wearily, shooting her offspring a frustrated glance.
‘I’m not exactly sure. It’s nothing to worry about, though.’ Determined not to be detained longer, Hettie spun on her heel and fled, leaving behind her only awkward explanations, something to which her mother, unfortunately, was only far too used.
‘Goodness, what it is to be young!’ she spluttered, rather appalled.
The General smiled easily, a charming man but one with a glint of sharp intelligence, showing him to be no one’s fool. ‘You mustn’t worry,’ he responded, gallantly. ‘I do remember what it’s like to be young – just! Now, we were saying . . . I need somewhere secure to lodge our paperwork. It is all rather hush-hush, this time round, I’m afraid.’
Calling a greeting to the splendidly good-looking young soldier, left standing guard outside the entrance, as always whenever the war committee convened, Hettie hurried down the steps and jumped into the Daimler, drawn up, door open, throwing herself onto the back seat next to her grandmother, who was waiting with thinly veiled impatience. Nearly exploding with happiness and the information she’d hugged to herself so joyfully since Leon, the gypsy leader, had first imparted it, Hettie turned towards her excitedly.
‘Grandmamma you’ll never believe what’s happened. . . .’
‘I’m sure I won’t,’ Katherine interjected, drily.
‘After Naseby, you know, the battle fought all those years ago during the Civil War. . . .’
‘Yes, I do know, darling. . . .’
‘When Alexander Hyssop was mortally wounded, it was the gypsies who brought him home to Nell Loxley to die!’
Katherine’s glance was a mixture of exasperation and amused affection. ‘Goodness, child! Whatever are you going on about now?’ she enquired, pleasantly enough, before leaning forwards to rap smartly on the glass partition di
viding Bill Walker from the car’s occupants. The engine started up and the car began to roll smoothly down the drive. Hettie’s face shone with excitement.
‘There was something else too, to do with that time, though I’ve no idea what exactly because Leon wouldn’t say!’
‘Leon?’ Katherine was evidently growing confused.
‘Leon, the gypsy leader,’ Hettie explained impatiently, too late remembering then that, given how her grandmother felt about the gypsies, perhaps this wasn’t the most tactful of subjects to have introduced. She smiled placatingly. Her grandmother’s expression had grown worryingly severe.
‘Hettie, I hope you haven’t been consorting with . . . with gypsies!’ She had difficulty even articulating the word so unpalatable was it on her tongue.
Hettie frowned. ‘But why ever not? I can hardly ignore them when their camp is so close by. Look, what Leon’s told me about Alexander. . . . Absolutely fascinating. . . .’
‘Fiddlesticks! A tall tale and gypsies are full of them,’ Katherine opined.
Met with such a lack of enthusiasm, it was difficult not to feel crushed. However this was her grandmother and Hettie was too used to dealing with her to be daunted for long. ‘He wasn’t making it up,’ she muttered, petulantly. ‘He’s not that kind of a man. You don’t know him, Grandmamma.’
‘He’s a gypsy,’ Katherine retorted. ‘The police should have moved their caravans on when they had chance. Perhaps it’s time I had a word.’
Hettie was genuinely shocked. Entirely inadvertently, not only had she landed herself in trouble again but worse even than that, it appeared she’d caused more trouble for the gypsies too, the last thing she’d intended. Her grandmother was a fearsome woman and that was a fact. A little thread of resentment rose. If, because of something that had happened many years ago, this old woman had formed a prejudice against a group of people seeming to Hettie fair-minded and decent enough, then that wasn’t her, Hettie’s, fault. She spoke carefully, determined, above all, not to make the situation any worse. ‘Grandmamma . . . I know it was a gypsy woman who once tried to burn Loxley down but it isn’t fair to blame other folk who had nothing to do with it just because they’re gypsies too!’
She spoke so earnestly, the swift retort hovering on the old woman’s lips died an instant death.
That she’d given her irascible relative something to think about was plain. A triumph, small as it was, giving Hettie a flash of insight into what life would be like when, wonderfully, everyone finally accepted that she’d grown up. She was getting there, slowly. She smiled, changing subjects swiftly, another sign of childhood left behind so, if she had but known it, a wave of sadness rolled over the woman sitting so stiffly upright beside her.
‘Where are we going?’ she enquired, for the first time, taking a note of her surroundings. The car had passed through the village, speeding out into the countryside. Rolling hills and high peaks and crags interspersed with picturesque villages, the countryside Hettie had always known and loved. ‘It’s something to do with Alex Windrow, isn’t it – the man who painted that portrait of Mother?’ she intuited, seeing by her grandmother’s expression that was it, exactly.
‘What else could it be?’ Katherine responded drily and putting all thoughts of her dear, darling child growing up firmly out of her head.
‘You’ve found out who he is?’ Hettie asked, eagerly.
‘I said I’d make enquiries,’ Katherine agreed, pleasantly. ‘A man matching his description is put up at The Oak in Hingham.’
‘Are we going to see him?’
‘Why not?’ she agreed.
They were in the tiny and remote hamlet of Hingham, sliding to a halt by a green bearing a single, massive oak tree and opposite a public house, aptly named The Oak. A few stone-built cottages and a church with a brook, overhung by trees, to the back of it, was all the place boasted. Hettie couldn’t think why an internationally acclaimed painter would have the slightest desire to stay here. Perhaps this was a scene he’d wanted to paint, like he’d so obviously wanted to paint her mother? It did look rather idyllic, she supposed. Excitement bubbled inside her. Bill Walker jumped from the driving seat and walked smartly round to open the passenger door. Katherine eased herself stiffly out, Hettie scrambling quickly after her. She grinned at Bill, who winked before returning to the car to settle himself down and await their return.
‘What are you going to say to Alex Windrow, Grandmamma?’ she demanded, eagerly.
‘We’ll see,’ Katherine said, heading towards the entrance porch as, at that moment, through it, a young man appeared. Dark, curly hair and a frown Hettie remembered all too well. The sight brought with it a surprising awareness of how glad she was to see him and, what’s more, that she’d been hoping she might since first she’d spied Alex Windrow.
‘Lewis!’ she said, gratified to discover, given the broad beam plastered across his face, he was actually pleased to see her, too. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Not much. I’d been thinking of coming to see you, if you must know.’
‘Were you? But why didn’t you? There’s an absolute load to show you round at Loxley!’
‘And are you going to introduce us?’ Katherine enquired, pleasantly but with an edge to her voice.
Hettie blushed. ‘This is Lewis Steed, Grandmother. The boy I told you about. Alex Windrow’s his uncle, well his adopted uncle, really. . . .’
‘And is your uncle in now?’ the older woman broke in, testily.
‘He’s in . . . the bar,’ Lewis finished lamely, to the old woman’s retreating back as, dismissing him as of no consequence, brushing rudely past him, she headed off inside.
Katherine was, she discovered, more than keen to acquaint herself with a man who’d dared gain financially by painting a portrait of a family member for public display and worse, compounding the crime by not asking permission first. It wouldn’t do, it simply wouldn’t do! She’d always thrived on cut and thrust, the heady battle of dispute and wretchedly, since Harry’s death, there’d been so little of that of late. Leaning on her stick, she stumped through into the bar, a low-ceilinged, oak-beamed room with low benches placed strategically around the wainscoted walls and where a medley of brasses hung. A pleasant and welcoming room, an oasis for guests and villagers alike to chat and enjoy a drink in congenial company. A low fire burned in the hearth, by which the single customer the room housed, sat at a table, facing outwards and nursing a pint glass. Katherine’s gaze roamed over him uneasily and, just as quickly, returned. A solid, well-dressed figure, a man whose thick and unruly brown hair was peppered with grey. As if he’d been expecting her, his gaze lifted from the depths of the glass into which he’d been staring. Meeting the angry, resentful gaze she remembered too well, Katherine’s heart lurched, the years falling away as if they’d never been. Her lips parted, forming the name, so astonishingly, she found there. The name belonging to George’s illegitimate son, Harry’s half-brother and her stepson, the man she’d hoped, prayed, had gone for good.
Instinct and upbringing, even in these dire circumstances caused her to put one foot in front of another, moving her body stiffly forwards even if a part of her, the greater part, wanted instantly to set off in the opposite direction and as fast as she could.
‘Katherine Loxley. But how are you, Stepmama?’ Reuben Fairfax murmured, rising to pull out a chair and smiling coldly. ‘Please. . . . Do sit down. I wondered how long it would take you to find me.’
Chapter Six
The afternoon sun spun patterns on the threadbare patches in the sitting room carpet, much as Bronwyn had tried to disguise the worst of the damage by strategic placement of the furniture. If only that was all she had to worry about! With a growing unease years of training had taught her to disguise, Bronwyn took her tea and sat down next to Roland. Her attention, meanwhile, centred on Hettie, who was lolling – and there was really no other way to describe it – in a chair next to the Reverend Lawrence Payne, Loxley’s vicar and eminent
historian. Bronwyn had invited the elderly cleric for tea, seeing it as a good opportunity for Roland to sound him out about Loxley, for there was very little he didn’t know about its history.
Since yesterday, and following Katherine’s startling revelation concerning Reuben’s unexpected return, this tea party had been the furthest event from Bronwyn’s mind. She’d been left mulling over Katherine’s dogged and perverse refusal to tell Hettie the truth about Reuben. According to Katherine, it was enough Hettie knew Alex Windrow, the painter, and Reuben Fairfax, Loxley’s ex-gamekeeper were one and the same and, no matter how Bronwyn tried to persuade her otherwise, she still refused to see it any other way. The fact remained, indeed had kept Bronwyn awake half the night, that even if, as Katherine insisted on pointing out, Reuben was only Harry’s half-brother, he was still Hettie’s uncle, a relationship she surely had a right to know about?
One look at her daughter’s earnest face, lifted trustingly towards the vicar, made up Bronwyn’s mind. Much as she understood Katherine’s antipathy towards Reuben, it wasn’t right to leave his connection to this family unacknowledged. Once Katherine had returned from yet another of the interminable committee meetings presently filling her diary, hopefully together, they’d put Hettie right.
‘You’re quiet today, Bron?’
Roland’s voice broke into her consciousness. A distant relative he might be but did he have a right to know about Reuben too? He was watching her over his teacup, his eyes flecked with genuine concern. A kind man and one whom the more she’d got to know, the more Bronwyn had grown to like. Once again, she was forced to acknowledge the feeling making ripples in the still millpond of her life. She liked Roland and sensed that he liked her too. More than liked him if the truth be known. . . . She smiled wanly.
‘I’ll be glad when this War Office’s convention is over, Roland. I know it doesn’t seem much but. . . .’