Inherit the Skies

by Janet Tanner

  ‘Sorry, Mr Pugh, but I’m in a terrible hurry.’

  ‘Sarah Thomas! You give me quite a turn shooting over th’ick gate like that!’ Amos Pugh managed Home Farm and had done for the past twenty years and though on the whole he preferred the company of cows to humans and was as likely to carry on a conversation with a bramble bush as with a man, he was fond of children – so long as they did not damage the hedges, run paths through the best meadows of mowing grass or frighten the ewes in the lambing season – and he knew most of them by name.

  ‘Sorry, but I wanted to get over quick in case the cows came.’ Sarah picked herself up, rubbing her knee where a shard of gravel had bitten into it. ‘Or the bull …’

  Amos Pugh laughed, a dry sound like the creaking of a gate.

  ‘He won’t hurt you! He’s gentle as a baby. And sweet natured, too, with all them lady friends to keep him company.’ He broke off, noticing Sarah’s hot and tear-stained face. ‘What’s the matter with you, my lovely?’

  Sarah rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. She did not want to stop to explain.

  ‘I’m all right. I’ve got to go …’

  She began to run again, across the road, between the tall slanting shadows thrown by the twin gate posts, down the drive that led to the house. At the foot of the small flight of stone steps it forked and Sarah took the branch that curved away around the corner of the house and across a corner of the cobbled stableyard. She had come this way sometimes with Mum when Mum was working at the house and even in her haste it never occurred to her to go the shortest way – up the steps to the main door. Sarah might not yet be ten years old but she knew her place.

  Here within the perimeters of Chewton Leigh House the afternoon lay as hot, heavy and still as it had across the meadows. The sun, lower in the sky now but still strong, seemed to bounce in waves of shimmering brightness off the grey stone walls and refract from the gleaming window panes, and across the cobbled yard the stable doors all swung open indicating that the horses were out in the meadow where they could feed on the sweet summer grass. Not a sound came from the open kitchen window to disturb the drowsy peace – no clatter of pots and pans, no voices calling to one another, no shrill litany as Cook yelled her dissatisfaction with Lizzie, the dim-witted scullery maid. The yard too was deserted; at this time of year there was less to do in the stables, unlike the hunting season when they were a hive of activity from morning to night, and somehow the almost unnatural quiet plucked another chord of unease in Sarah’s tense little chest.

  Suppose there is nobody here! she thought. Suppose I am the only person left in the whole world! She pressed her hand against her mouth as the fantasy momentarily overwhelmed her.

  Then quite suddenly the peace of the afternoon shattered. The whole world seemed to vibrate with a low chugging sound descanted by a high pitched whine and around the corner of the house rattled the brass monstrosity on wheels which was known locally as Mr Gilbert Morse’s ‘motee car’.

  When he had first acquired it a year earlier the ‘motee car’, a smart German Benz, had caused a great stir in Chewton Leigh. Children had run after it along the street, older folk had kept well back when it passed, half afraid that the juddering contraption would explode before their very eyes in a cloud of smoke, and Jem Stokes, driving his trap to market, had had to keep a tight rein on his frightened horse to keep it from bolting. The first time she had seen it Sarah had run all the way home to tell her mother and the excitement of it had remained with her for days. Since then the ‘motee car’ had become a familiar sight in Chewton Leigh and people had begun to take it for granted. It was even said that since Mr Morse’s steam engine factory in Bristol was now making engines for ‘motee cars’ in all probability there would be other strange contraptions chugging around the lanes before long. But Sarah, who knew nothing of engines and cared less, had not bothered to listen to the talk and had never seen the car this close before. Now she drew back against the stable wall, her eyes round with apprehension as it rattled over the cobbles towards her.

  The driver, perched on the black leather seat and clutching the steering wheel which rose on a long rod between his knees, was scarcely less frightening than his vehicle since he was almost hidden by a peaked cap, goggles and a voluminous white dust coat. The ‘motee car’ ground to a halt in the middle of the yard, juddering madly as the engine continued to run, and as the driver removed his cap and goggles Sarah realised it was Mr Morse himself.

  Suddenly all the fears of the last hour fused into one and that fear was of Mr Gilbert Morse. All very well for her mother to say he was a kind man, all very well for her to instruct Sarah to run to him for help, and for Sarah herself to have seen him as her saviour when she was a mile away from Chewton Leigh House and almost weeping in despair. Now, faced with the flesh and blood reality of the man who was Squire to the whole valley, to whom grown men still tipped their caps or pulled their forelocks and women bobbed a half-curtsey, Sarah was overcome with terror. She stood, her back pressed against the stable wall, her fingers digging into the crevices in the rough stone, no more able to move or speak than a cornered rabbit.

  Gilbert Morse did something to stop the engine of the ‘motee car’ and as the thunderous sound died away he turned to look at Sarah. She saw his eyebrows come together slightly and cringed back even further against the wall, half expecting to be chastised for trespassing. After all, if Amos Pugh could scold her for running through the fields, how much more likely was Gilbert Morse to be angry with her for daring to venture into his stable-yard? And he looked so big and so frightening sitting up there in his ‘motee car’.

  ‘Hello, who are you?’ Gilbert Morse asked. His tone was not unkind but the timbre of his voice did nothing to set Sarah at her ease. She was used to voices softened by the gentle Somerset burr; the lack of any noticeable accent made his voice sound cold and sharp like the crisp air on a December morning or the patterns the frost made on the window of her bedroom. She took a nervous step away from the sanctuary of the wall and stopped again, her eyes glued to the god-like man in his gleaming brass chariot.

  He was very dark, she thought – dark hair, showing only the merest hint of grey where it had been flattened by the cap, dark brows, finely chiselled yet striking, neat dark moustache, all accentuated by the background of that voluminous white dust coat. Gilbert Morse was forty-two years old and most of his contemporaries privately thought he looked younger, for his complexion was fresh and the clear blue of his eyes lent him youthfulness, but to Sarah he looked as imposing as the new king, Edward, and as old as Methuselah.

  ‘Come here!’ Gilbert Morse instructed.

  Reluctantly she crept forward, her damp palms clutching handfuls of petticoat. But her chin was held high and her eyes met his with a look that was almost defiant in spite of her nervousness.

  As she came closer she saw his eyes narrow.

  ‘It’s Sarah, isn’t it?’ There was surprise now in that unfamiliarly cultured voice.

  It was Sarah’s turn to be surprised. The last thing she had expected was that Mr Morse would be able to identify her at a glance. She had been to the house once or twice with her mother, it was true, and once Mr Morse had come to the village school to present the prizes for regular attendance and good behaviour. But all the same …

  ‘Yes, it’s Sarah Thomas, sir,’ she supplied.

  He got up, manoeuvring himself between that enormously tall steering wheel and another clutch of levers and swinging himself through the gap in the ‘ motee car’’s side and down onto the cobbles.

  ‘What brings you here, Sarah?’ There was an edge to his voice which she was too frightened to wonder about. Standing there before her he seemed scarcely less of a giant than he had done sitting up high in the ‘ motee car’, for Sarah, though tall for her age, barely reached up to his shoulder.

  ‘Well?’ His blue eyes were sharp, cool as his voice, with that same clear edge that made her think of frosty mornings.

  ‘My Mum t
old me to come,’ she said with a hint of defiance.

  His eyes grew even sharper. ‘ Your mother?’

  ‘Yes. She’s seamstress to Mrs Morse …’

  ‘I know who she is,’ he said shortly. ‘Why did she send you?’

  And suddenly Sarah’s anxiety for her mother was greater than her fear of Mr Morse – and it was all pouring out.

  ‘She’s bad – really bad – and the doctor wasn’t there and that maid of his wouldn’t tell me where to find him and I didn’t know what to do. An’ then I remembered Mum said to tell you an’ …’

  ‘What is wrong with your mother?’ he enquired.

  Sarah catalogued Rachel’s symptoms. ‘Please, Mr Morse, can you help? Because if you can’t I think she’s going to … I don’t know what’s going to happen!’ she finished.

  Gilbert Morse looked thoughtfully at the child who stood before him. She was a funny little thing, he thought, too thin by half, with her hair hanging loose around her face and her skirt stained with grass where she had fallen onto her knees. But her eyes, blue as cornflowers, were clear and honest and the consternation was written in them for all to see. She could be exaggerating, of course. Children sometimes did. But somehow he did not think she was exaggerating.

  He turned back to the car, reaching for the cap and goggles which lay on the seat.

  ‘I think I know where to find Dr Haley at this time of day,’ he said wryly.

  Sarah hung back, uncertain as to what he expected her to do, and he indicated the motor car.

  ‘You’d better come with me.’

  Still she hesitated. Her bravado was spent now and the thought of actually riding in this strange contraption along with the imposing Mr Morse was a daunting one.

  ‘I can run home,’ she said. ‘It won’t take me long. I can go across the fields, the way I come.’

  He hid a smile. ‘I’m sure you could, but it looks to me as if you have done enough running for one day. And besides, I shall need you to explain to Dr Haley what is wrong with your mother. Jump up, now.’

  He caught her under the arms, swinging her up easily into the motor. The aroma of the sunwarmed leather and the petrolly smells emanating from the hot engine made Sarah wrinkle her nose but she sat obediently on the sofa-shaped seat, pulling her skirts down over her grass-stained knees. Gilbert Morse shouted for Joe, his chief stable lad, and to Sarah’s surprise the boy emerged from one of the outbuildings where no doubt he had been idling away the summer afternoon.

  ‘Start her up, Joe,’ Gilbert instructed him, climbing into the motor beside Sarah. The boy cranked a handle at the front of the bonnet, puffing and panting with the effort. After a few tries it caught and the motor began to judder as it had before. Gilbert made some adjustments to the levers and as the motor began to move in a sweeping circle around the stable yard Sarah clung on tightly.

  ‘Dr Haley will be at Little Orchard,’ Gilbert shouted above the noise of the engine. ‘He’ll say it is a professional visit no doubt but it’s my opinion his regular attendance there owes more to Cory Coombes’ hospitality and his bottomless brandy bottle than it does to his lumbago.’

  Sarah was silent, a little shocked and not certain how to respond to this statement. Captain Coombes at Little Orchard was one of the most respected gentlemen in the district, only a peg or two down the scale from Mr Morse himself, and he was a retired colonial army officer, a fact that had always impressed Sarah immensely since her own father had been a lowly private.

  Little Orchard lay between Chewton Leigh House and the village, with, as its name suggested, three quarters of an acre of apple orchard to hide it from the road. As the motor cleared the dense plot of gnarled old trees in full leaf Sarah saw that Mr Morse had been right – Dr Haley’s pony and trap were indeed there, the patient pony hitched up to a convenient post, though Sarah knew he would wait all day for the doctor without any restriction at all.

  Gilbert Morse brought the motor to a halt and she jumped down, running to jangle the doorbell. Now that Mr Gilbert Morse was there, a few yards away, ready to lend her support if necessary she explained herself with confidence to the captain’s maid and a few moments later Dr Haley emerged from the house carrying his battered black bag, with the colour rather high in his whiskery cheeks.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he demanded. Then, as he saw the motor: ‘Why, Morse! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for you!’ Gilbert said shortly. ‘And it’s a good thing I knew where to find you. Sarah’s mother is very ill and you’re needed there at once. You had better put that lazy pony of yours to a gallop if you don’t want to lose a patient.’

  ‘A patient? Rachel Thomas?’ Dr Haley sounded almost indignant.

  ‘What else would you call someone you are being asked to attend to?’ Gilbert enquired with barely veiled sarcasm. ‘And if it’s payment you are worred about, I’ll see to that. Rachel Thomas is an excellent seamstress – if anything happens to her before Blanche gets her autumn wardrobe, she’ll never forgive you. So get a move on, man. Pay more attention to medicine and less to the brandy bottle!’

  Sarah saw the doctor’s face grow even redder and she wondered how many people would dare to speak to him in this fashion. But she felt no resentment at the suggestion that Mr Morse’s only reason for going to all this trouble was to safeguard his wife’s autumn wardrobe. That was simply the way things were – everyone had their place in the scheme of things and to gentry like Mr Morse the lower orders would always be judged by their usefulness, assessed like the old bull who would one day be removed from his harem of heifers to make way for a younger, more virile, specimen.

  Dr Haley unhitched the pony and climbed into the trap slightly unsteadily. He brought the reins down with a heavy flick across the pony’s rump and she moved off at a trot, sensing her owner’s mood. Sarah was about to run behind but Gilbert Morse called her back, a look of something like amusement playing around his well-shaped mouth.

  ‘I’ll take you, Sarah. Only let Dr Haley go on ahead a little. I don’t want to overtake him in the lanes or that pony of his may take fright and they will end up in Bristol.’

  When he had given the doctor time to get well ahead Gilbert drove slowly back to the road and turned in the direction of Starvault Cottages. Sarah did not think to wonder how he knew where she lived; it was only later that the thought occurred to her and even then she satisfied herself with the answer: a man like Gilbert Morse knows everything.

  As the cottages came into sight she could see Dr Haley’s pony quietly grazing the grass verge outside. Then as Gilbert Morse pulled the motor into the widest part of the lane she was amazed to see the door open and Dr Haley come out, tossing his bag into the trap. Her heart lifted with a great surge of joy. Mum must be better. The doctor was no longer needed.

  Gilbert moved the motor across to the entrance to Starvault Cottages gently, so as not to startle the pony.

  ‘Well?’ His tone was brusque.

  Dr Haley spread his hands and the expression on his face turned Sarah’s joy to cold clammy fear. It spread through her veins and everywhere it touched was left weak and trembling. The dread debilitated her; she could not move a muscle.

  ‘Well?’ Gilbert said again.

  Haley shook his head.

  ‘Too late,’ he said carelessly. ‘She’s gone.’

  Chapter Five

  The Chewton Leigh estate, which had been in the hands of generations of the Morse family since the dissolution of the monasteries, encompassed twelve hundred acres of rolling Somerset countryside between Bristol and the Mendip Hills. Bordered on three sides by Duchy land, the estate took in two copses and a small wooded lake, part of the village of Chewton Leigh and enough prime farm land to support five small farms. Four of these were let on long leases to tenant farmers, the fifth – Home Farm – was an acknowledged extension of the ‘Big House’. When Gilbert’s grandfather, old Robert Morse, had been Squire he had run it himself with the help of an agent and an army of labourers,
somehow succeeding in making the necessary decisions and issuing his instructions in spite of riding to the hounds two and sometimes three times a week during the hunting season. His son, John, had shown little interest in the land, however, and less in hunting, shooting, and other ‘gentlemanly pursuits’. His passion had been for the steam engines which as a child he had watched puffing down the newly constructed line in the next valley and when he had been the beneficiary of an unexpected legacy from a supposedly penniless grandfather on his mother’s side, freedom had beckoned. John had stopped only to say a brief prayer at the Parish Church for the soul of the old man who had chosen to live in virtual poverty and decided for reasons best known to himself to leave every penny of his secret fortune to his favourite grandson, before riding into Bristol to join forces with two impecunious but equally besotted friends and set about actually producing some of the steam engines which so absorbed him.

  Miraculously the venture had been successful – more than successful. Whether enthusiasm and backing alone had carried the day or whether John had in fact been a much shrewder businessman than his family had ever suspected was a much debated point; whichever, the factory flourished and Morse Engines was soon a thriving concern, employing upwards of fifty men at the now enlarged works site.

  At the age of sixty Robert had met his death riding his usual headlong charge at a dangerous hedge in the hunting field and John had decided to install a manager to take over the running of Home Farm. This pattern had been allowed to continue for Gilbert, his only son, was no more inclined to interest himself in farming than his father had been. His heart too was in engineering though he dabbled in the City to satisfy his mother, who looked on the thriving little business empire as a rather grubby venture almost akin to ‘trade’ in its undesirability, and though after John’s death he kept a paternal eye on the estate, Home Farm was left in the hands of the manager.