The Keeper of Secrets

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Please, your honour, can we not move in now, as it is?’ she pleaded.

  I spread my hands. ‘The roof leaks, there is no door, there is no glass in the windows. The whole place is caked with cow dung. How could you possibly move in?’

  She shook her head dumbly. After a moment, she whispered, ‘We’d be together, sir.’

  ‘How could she dream of living in what is little more than a hut?’ I demanded in something like irritation, as we tooled back from the workhouse, myself handling the ribbons. It was as if Mrs Jenkins’ disappointment had crept into my veins.

  ‘Impossible – in this cold!’ Hansard snapped.

  ‘Hard but not impossible, begging your pardons,’ Jem cut in. ‘If you pulled the men out of your woodland today and set them all to work on the byre, they could make it weatherproof at least.’

  ‘But a mud floor!’

  Hansard stroked his chin. ‘Consider in what condition you first met them, Tobias. One might have said that animals would have disdained such a place. But she contrived to raise her little brood there.’

  ‘I cannot let it be said that I let anyone quit the shelter of the workhouse for such a place!’

  ‘It won’t be such a place if you accept Jem’s advice. Talk to Ford today, and they could be rehoused by Friday. I warrant Mrs Beckles could lay her hands on a few sticks of furniture and a pan or two. In fact, I’ll ride back myself to ask her.’

  Jem pulled the gig to a halt by the stables. Dr Hansard suited the deed to his words, mounting his horse the moment Jem had saddled it and riding forth like a lover half his age. Jem and I exchanged a dour grin.

  While he was rubbing down the horses, I brought him a tankard of ale. ‘A strange business, up at the Priory,’ I suggested.

  ‘They say her ladyship’s ever been prone to such fancies,’ he said, paying particular attention to the hind leg furthest from me. ‘And it isn’t as if she’s only the one place to live, is it, now?’

  ‘No, indeed.’ What we both hoped, but neither said, was that Dr Hansard might elicit more information from Mrs Beckles and indeed the other servants if he was on his own. ‘I must make arrangements about that cottage,’ I said, as another silence grew between us.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, as if he were as glad to be rid of me as I to be free of his – indeed, of anyone’s – company. What in my heart I wanted was a period of quiet reflection, or at least a physical vent for my feelings, like rubbing down a whole team of horses. What I must have was a colloquy with my steward, whom I eventually ran to earth in the Silent Woman, a smoke-filled den no larger than Mrs Trent’s kitchen.

  ‘So this is how you manage my lands, Mr Ford! This is how you supervise gangs of men and boys put to clear it. This is how a child finds a valuable item and knows no one to show it to – with the direst of consequences!’

  He staggered to his feet. ‘Mr Campion – I—’

  ‘Outside, now! Unless you prefer I should drag you out myself? And then have the pleasure of horsewhipping you?’

  I stood with my back to the sun, so he had the added disadvantage of having to squint at me. I could also see the deep creases and growth of stubble. He looked less like my man of business than one of the labourers he was supposed to be supervising. He shook constantly, and though he tried to cover his mouth with one trembling hand, I caught sickening waves of gin fumes.

  My father, had he ever seen his vastly superior steward in such a state, would undoubtedly have dismissed him on the spot. My anger was such that I was ready to do the same. But obscurely I recognised that Ford was not the entire cause of my anger, perhaps not even the major part. My father’s steward too would have had a deputy who was more than capable of taking over the estate and maintaining its superlative standards. He had, after all, been a disciple of Mr Coke of Holkham. But – having been remiss in failing to act after our first falling-out – to whom would I turn if I dismissed this poor specimen? Was he better than the nothing I would be left with if, as I was perfectly entitled to do, I despatched him from post and home alike this very day? More to the point, Christmas was almost upon us, and how could a man of God make a family homeless at such a season?

  I looked him up and down. ‘Go home and put your head under the pump. I will see you at four o’clock.’

  By then I might have made a decision. If only this were a matter on which I might consult Jem or Hansard. Only then did I recall that there was something more pressing to do. ‘The moment you’re sober, take the men from the West Copse down to the old byre. I want it habitable – by humans – by Friday noon. You – and all the men – will work by lamplight if necessary. And the boys from the workhouse can help too. It is to be a palace. In fact,’ I smiled, but grimly, ‘we will postpone our talk until Friday at four. Be off with you.’

  My continuing anger could only be assuaged by a fierce walk, so I set off I knew not in which direction. But soon I realised that I was heading towards the woodland where I had last met Matthew. If I had hated hearing of Lizzie’s continued absence in so bald a way, how would he feel if the news came without warning – in the inn, or in the servants’ hall? I turned my footsteps into the woods, calling from time to time.

  I found him in the same walk as I, apparently heading for home, his gun under one arm and a brace of pigeons in his right hand.

  He greeted me with the politeness of one not particularly wanting his solitude disturbed.

  So I came quickly to the point. ‘Matthew, I have two pieces of news for you. The first is good, the second profoundly disappointing for you, I fear.’

  ‘And what might that one be?’ he asked truculently.

  ‘It concerns Lizzie. Mrs Beckles tells me that she and Lady Elham will not after all be home for Christmas.’

  He paled under his tan, but asked casually, ‘I thought her ladyship planned to return?’

  ‘Exactly so. But apparently Lady Elham took a sudden fancy to spend the festive season at another of her houses. I am very sorry.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that. I had asked her, since the celebrations would be much curtailed, if her servants could be given longer holidays, but it seems she left no instructions for that. Matthew, I believe Lizzie had no choice in the matter.’

  He spat. ‘Which of us does? Not John Coachman. You know he had to turn out at six at night when with his rheumatics he should have been at home with his wife by the fire, not driving God knows how far with only the moon for light? She’s not heard from him since, not a word.’

  How could I defend Lady Elham? But how many times had my family and I demanded on a whim the services of coachman, valet or abigail? How many times had dinner had to be held back because one of us could not make the effort to be on time, or brought forward because of a whim to visit the theatre? And how many times had I given peremptory orders like those I had given to Ford, but with far less justification?

  I said humbly, ‘But there is good news too. The footpad to whom you gave chase thought better of stealing my watch.’

  He turned incredulously. ‘It has been found?’

  ‘It has indeed. And by none other than young William Jenkins. He was one of the work party clearing my woods,’ I added, when Matthew did not speak. To fill the continuing silence I told him of William’s arrest, and the conditions in the gaol from which we had rescued him.

  ‘At least he’s got a new pair of boots and some of Lady Elham’s clothing for his pains,’ I concluded.

  ‘Why the poor basket?’

  If I had answered him truly, my answer would not have pleased him. He did not need to know I went in the hopes of hearing news of his betrothed.

  ‘I knew there would be something there to fit him. At some point in the gaol he’d been stripped almost naked. And though I could have shopped for new attire in Warwick, I thought of his mother waiting for news of him.’ May God forgive me my lie.

  Matthew nodded absently. As if he had forgotten my presence he started to walk back towards the road
.

  I fell into step with him. ‘And soon,’ I added, ‘he will have a new home.’

  That stopped him in his tracks. ‘How so?’

  ‘The family cannot live as they are, separated from each other, ill-fed, unhappy. You will recall an old cottage on my glebe lands—’

  ‘That’s scarce fit for animals, let alone humans!’

  ‘I know it. But by the end of the week it will have a new roof and everything in my power to make it habitable. So some good has come of it all.’ Why did I need this man’s approval? Even as I spoke, I heard a note of pleading in my voice.

  ‘So it has,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll bid you good afternoon, then, Parson.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  When a peace-making letter arrived from my mother, begging me to return to Derbyshire for Christmas, I was sorely tempted to accept her invitation. But how could a shepherd abandon his flock at such a season? Wolves might not prowl the environs of Moreton St Jude, but poverty and sickness did. Furthermore, even if I had had time to recruit a temporary replacement – and I knew from my days at Cambridge that there were many poor Fellows who would have been delighted to earn a little money – I did not wish to fail the mummers and the carol-singers who were sadly disappointed by my cousin’s continued absence.

  Most important, this was the first Christmas I could worship in my own church, leading what I knew was a growing congregation and hoped would be larger yet. There would be midnight Communion for those minded to present themselves at the Lord’s Table. I had also arranged a service in the early afternoon of Christmas Day itself, asking all to attend so that they might give thanks for the events of the forthcoming evening.

  In Lady Elham’s absence, on Mrs Beckles’ instructions, Gaston and Cook had prepared a feast for all the estate workers to be held, despite her ladyship’s original instructions to the contrary, in the great hall. We all agreed that what the head did not know, the heart could not worry about. When I realised that a few of the villagers would be excluded from the treat, I prevailed on my good friend, who in truth needed no persuasion, to extend the invitation to all. Farmer Bulmer contributed two sides of beef, and Mr Miller enough flour for all to have fine white bread for a change. Other families contributed what food and drink they could. Dr Hansard and I had undertaken to provide small gifts for all the children.

  ‘I only wish,’ Edmund said, ‘that such benevolence might be continued throughout the year and extend beyond enough food and drink to render an army bilious to decent roofs and fair wages. Look at them all, tugging their forelocks and curtsying as if the King himself were here.’

  ‘To my mind Mrs Beckles is worth ten of the proper hostess,’ I declared, pot valiant, ‘and even Mr Davies is a better host than our new lord.’

  Hansard regarded me over the rim of his glass. ‘Indeed. I wonder where Elham spends his Christmas.’

  I could do no more than shrug; I could hardly tell him that when I wrote to decline my parents’ invitation, I had asked if his whereabouts might be known. There was, after all, a tenuous family connection, and in any case, doings in one quarter of the ton usually became common knowledge to the rest.

  Grateful for their generosity in proffering the olive branch, I had responded with a communication full of my news, which must have cost my mother two or three florins to receive. To my enormous surprise, she responded with vigour, and we embarked on a correspondence that gave me, at least, every satisfaction.

  ‘And her ladyship?’ he pursued.

  ‘I believe Mrs Beckles may know her whereabouts,’ I replied, happy to give him a further excuse to talk to her.

  With a smile on my face, I turned to others in the room, determined that none, especially Jem or Matthew, should suspect the sadness, even despair, in my heart. I had no right to blight their seasonal good cheer with my own sorrow, despite a suspicion I could not deny that I would never see my beloved Lizzie again. I could understand why she had not written if to me – that was beyond the bounds of my hopes – but she should have communicated with Mrs Beckles, to whom she owed so much. Lady Elham, deciding for some inexplicable reason to rent a house in Bath, insisted in a letter to Mrs Beckles that both were enjoying the sights of that city, and would think of me when they worshipped in the cathedral. Bath! When a lady of her rank might stay anywhere! It might once have been fashionable, but now had a sadly passé air, the beau monde turning their backs on it as too provincial and too damp, whatever the healing reputation of its waters.

  If Mrs Beckles was concerned, she gave no sign of it now. The mummers had acted, the carol-singers had given of their lusty best, and now a couple of fiddlers had taken themselves up on to an impromptu stage. She smiled as one knowing that she had done her very best and accomplished it without anyone realising the effort it must have cost. In the absence of her ladyship and her son, I insisted it was she who with Dr Hansard should open the dance. I sought the hand of Mrs Jenkins, as wide-eyed with wonder as her children, all of whom, despite what I would have considered the still primitive conditions of what they now proudly called their cottage, were visibly happier, and, to my eyes, slightly less thin. Mrs Jenkins had no notion of dancing, but I grasped her firmly and whirled her around, just as many men were whirling their partners. It was not elegant, it was not decorous, but it was great fun.

  In the midst of it all, I saw Dr Hansard slip away, his face no longer convivial. Indeed, such was his solemnity that I returned Mrs Jenkins to her bench with a courtly bow and followed.

  A temporary nursery had been established in the room I used as my schoolroom, so that those mothers with babes in arms and children too young to enjoy all the jollity could take it in turns to care for the whole group. The woman on duty now, one of Farmer Gates’ brood, had been more conscientious than most, walking up and down between the pallets on which her and her friends’ children lay to see that they were settled. But one was too peaceful.

  Edmund Hansard had him in his arms now, his puny namesake, and tears were running down his old cheeks onto the young ones. But there was no complaint from the babe. The Almighty had chosen this of all the nights in the year to call little Edmund home.

  The babe’s was not the only death to cast a pall over the village. Soon there came news from Lady Elham that John Coachman had taken a chill, which had gone to his lungs, with fatal consequences. Mrs Sanderson – some were surprised to know that John had a more conventional surname – reeled when I visited her with Mrs Beckles to break the news.

  ‘But he was so well! He had his rheumatics, but you’d expect that in a man of near sixty out in all weathers. A chill!’ she repeated, between sobs.

  In any extraordinary act of kindness, her ladyship offered to send her travelling carriage to take the widow – to Bath for the funeral.

  ‘How could I go that far?’ Mrs Sanderson demanded. ‘And in her ladyship’s coach, dressed like this? And to leave now! A hundred miles!’

  In vain did we try to persuade her. All too predictably, she could not comprehend the possibility of travelling so far, even in a luxurious coach.

  At least she had some consolation. Her ladyship had also promised that she would not be thrown out of her home of thirty years, although it was a tied cottage. Mrs Sanderson was unable to read the letter herself, but pressed it into my hand for confirmation of what Mrs Beckles had read. What neither of us cared to add at this stage was that the arrangement could only be provisional. It depended, of course, on the agreement of Lord Elham, who was currently travelling abroad.

  Mrs Beckles’ eyes met mine: we both hoped devoutly that his lordship might be delayed indefinitely. In the meantime, Mrs Sanderson need not hear of the proviso until she was over the shock.

  * * *

  And so the winter limped on, the roads still frozen in iron-hard ruts. It was impossible to till the earth, or to extract any root crops from it. There must have been death from hunger, had it not been for the charity and hard work of the more fortunate of my parishioners, whom I exhort
ed each week from the pulpit to share what little they had. Yeoman farmers, landed gentry and even members of the minor aristocracy volunteered or were morally coerced into giving bread and soup. Mrs Beckles contrived daily to feed what Lady Elham, still sojourning in Bath, insisted must be only the deserving poor. Mr Woodvine, the new butler, abetted her, sending good port wine into households where yet another invalid was struggling to recover. When either turned to me for a decision whether such and such were deserving, my reply was always the same: ‘Tell me which of my parishioners deserves to starve to death.’

  Soon they did not bother to ask. Nor did they ask where the extra supplies of warm clothing sprang from. I would have told them that a great lady of my acquaintance had heard of the villagers’ plight; I would not have told them that the lady in question was my mother, who, alas, had so far failed to obtain hard news of the Elhams, mother or son. Even with all this charity, no villager exactly prospered, but at least few were forced into the workhouse and no one starved.

  Elsewhere in the country, we heard with a shudder, there were more Corn Riots.

  ‘Did you ever hear the like?’ Dr Hansard demanded, removing his spectacles and using them to tap the offending headline. ‘They’re bringing out the militia and telling them to fire upon their fellow men!’

  I turned away, unable to speak.

  ‘Why can they not see that if the people did not starve, they would be peaceable? It may be good for the souls of the rich to dispense largesse, but is it good for the souls of the poor receiving it? And what of those villages with no wealthy patron? How are they to survive? Workhouses must be overflowing!’ he continued, rumbling on in similar vein until I had composed myself again. ‘And do not tell me that people would rather work hard for a living wage than be pauperised! Look at your Mrs Jenkins. She toils from dawn to dusk – never were there chickens more cosseted, I dare swear, but she is happy to do it because their eggs are feeding her children and bringing in a steady – if pitifully small – income.’