by Ann Cliff
DEEP
WATERS
Ann Cliff
ROBERT HALE • LONDON
CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapters
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
For Martin and Jill, Peter and Irene,
with happy memories of Nidderdale
in the summer sun.
ONE
Nidderdale, Yorkshire, 1890
‘No! I don’t want to see you!’ Rachel shuddered at the thought. The sounds were faint at first, growing gradually louder. Cold air moved in the shadows, going through the old house at evening.
The deliberate steps paused on every stair. Rachel knew she should have left before the light failed, locked the door and left the ghosts to their memories. Firby Hall had been notorious for its hauntings from the time of Good Queen Bess.
The sounds grew nearer and the oak door creaked open slightly, then paused. Trembling with fright, Rachel leaned on the panelled wall for support. The light was fading now and she had never been here alone in the dark before.
‘Go back! Go back to where you came from!’ she whispered, but she dared not shut her eyes.
A figure appeared in the doorway, the head turned towards her in surprise, as though it too might be afraid.
‘You wish me to leave?’ The face was in shadow, the voice was faint… .
Rachel was speechless. In the silence she heard more creaking as the old timbers settled down for the night.
‘You’re not a ghost, are you … here two hundred years ago?’ The voice was stronger now, human, a man’s voice.
Rachel slowly stood up and breathed deeply. ‘What do you mean by coming in here?’
She was angry, mainly at herself for being afraid. He was only a visitor. She often showed people round the house, but never at this late hour.
‘You look a little like one of the portraits on the stairs, the girl with dark hair. Not that I believe in ghosts, of course, but for a moment I thought you could be … someone from the past.’ He stepped into the room; a tall young man in riding boots, with chestnut hair.
Rachel stifled a giggle. ‘So did I! There is supposed to be a ghost here, I’ve imagined I heard it several times and I thought that this time …’ she shuddered again. ‘So how can I help you?’ She smoothed her apron over the black dress. ‘The Hall is only open to visitors by arrangement.’
The visitor was not to be put off. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? And this must be the Long Gallery. Most of the Elizabethan houses have one.’ He walked over to one of the windows that ran round three sides of the room. ‘I’m Roger Beckwith. I remember Firby Hall from years ago. You are the daughter of the house? You know, in this room you could have been a haunting from any age in the past.’ His voice was deep and pleasant, with only a faint touch of Yorkshire. Was he laughing at her?
‘Well, Mr Beckwith, I must ask you to leave. I’m – my mother is the housekeeper and the Family is expected to come home very soon. I was just checking that all’s in order for them.’ No doubt Her Ladyship would find some fault, Rachel added to herself. ‘It will soon be dark and I have no candles here.’
‘I am sorry,’ Beckwith said contritely. ‘I was passing and called in on impulse, since the front door was open.’
They walked down the wide staircase together and into the formal garden. Across the lane was the farmhouse where she lived and if Rachel didn’t go home soon, Mother would come looking for her. Rooks cawed as they flew overhead, homing to their rookery on the edge of a wood.
They halted at the gate and Beckwith looked down at her. ‘You must be Kit Garnett’s daughter,’ he said. ‘What’s your name, little ghost?’
‘Rachel and I must go home, Mr Beckwith,’ she said firmly. ‘Did you want to make an appointment to see the house? You’ll have to speak to my mother, although I’m not sure that it will be possible while Major Potts and Lady Agnes are here.’
‘Doesn’t matter … I just wanted to see the old place again before it disappears. I was brought up not far from here. Well, thank you, Miss Garnett.’
‘What do you mean, “disappears”?’
Beckwith turned to his horse, which was tied to the gate. ‘Old houses are always being knocked down and new ones built, as fashions change.’ He sounded casual. ‘Seems a pity, though, there’s so much history here. I suppose you know the stories, Protestants and Catholics, Cavaliers and Roundheads. Even though we’re on the edge of the moors, there were some violent happenings here in the past.’
A week later, the owners of the Hall were due to come home at any minute. Firby Hall had been in uproar for weeks. Horses had been brought in from the pasture and fed up with oats, pheasants counted and the carriage cleaned and polished. Silver had been taken out of storage, Cook dragged out of retirement and an extra maid had been found. Several Shorthorn cows had been bought, to make sure there was enough milk and butter for the Family and their guests.
John the gardener was probably the best prepared; he had kept the kitchen garden going while the Potts were away. Kit the manager had sold surplus vegetables in the village and put the money back into maintenance.
The Garnetts were making the most of their last hours of freedom. The sun warm on her back, Rachel moved across a grassy slope above the Hall, basket in hand. The scent was intoxicating, a green smell of grass and the herbs they gathered. It was good to get out and into the sunshine, away from the kitchen and the barns and the hectic preparations.
‘It might be the last time we get the chance…’ Ruth Garnett looked up the hillside, peaceful in the afternoon light. Today they were collecting plantain leaves, dark green spikes easy to spot among the meadow grasses. Common old plantain, most folks thought, was a weed, but Mother knew better. These herbs would go into a salve for cuts and bruises, always in demand in Firby village.
‘Mother! Look!’ Down the valley, on the winding ribbon of the road from Masham, the Firby Hall carriage looked like a toy. ‘They’re here!’ Quickly, the women took up their baskets and set off briskly down the slope. Sheep scattered right and left as they scrambled over a stile.
‘Her Ladyship mustn’t be kept waiting!’
Ruth started to walk briskly down to the field gate. Her Ladyship and the Major had been away in India for four years and the general feeling in the servants’ hall was voiced by Mrs Metcalfe, the groom’s wife: ‘Pity they couldn’t stay in India!’
Rachel sensed trouble ahead. She made a face, but out of her mother’s sight. Respect for the Family, their employers, was the rule in their household.
Back at the Hall they quickly tidied their hair, put on clean aprons and slipped into place just as the carriage rolled up the drive in a spurt of gravel. Everyone knew the ritual, but they were out of practice after four years of peace.
Rachel straightened her cap and stood in the short line of servants just behind the reassuring bulk of her father, while faces were rearranged into respectful smiles. It paid to look humble, especially with the Major.
Ruth had called in their former cook and a young housemaid, both of whom lived in the village, for the duration of the visit. (How long was it going to be?) Mrs Metcalfe would also help as needed.
Firby Hall was a Nidderdale estate with a rather large old house, standing in a sheltered valley. Rachel’s father, Kit Garnett, managed the home far
m, while her mother looked after the housekeeping at the Hall, as well as the farmhouse. Quite often, Rachel wished that her family had their own farm. For the last four years, they’d had the estate to themselves, but now … anything could happen.
John the gardener ran to the horse’s head while the groom jumped down and prepared to hand his employers out of the vehicle, but he was too late. Down came the Major, red-faced and puffing.
‘GET OUT OF MY WAY!’ He trod heavily on the groom’s foot.
The hapless groom jumped to one side as Lady Agnes swept down from the door and landed on the drive with a thump. Lady Agnes was a forthright character and her voice was almost as loud as the Major’s. ‘Stupid man!’
Donald the groom reddened. ‘Sorry, sir, m’lady.’ It was not a good start.
Rachel glanced up at her father, but couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He was wondering, perhaps, how long the Family would be staying and how much they would have to say about the crops, the livestock and the state of the farm. Through bad seasons as well as good, the farm was supposed to function perfectly, with not a weed out of place. The Family had high expectations and short tempers.
Guy, the son and heir, was not with them, much to everyone’s relief. Perhaps he would have grown up a little in the last four years? He would have left school by now and Kit had calculated that Guy would be eighteen or nineteen.
Ruth was wondering whether there would be enough indoor staff to keep the house running properly, when Lady Agnes turned to the waiting servants.
‘We will take tea in the drawing room,’ she announced, steely blue eyes sweeping the line of servants.
‘Welcome home, m’lady,’ Ruth offered, but it was ignored.
The groom led the horse away to the stables and the gardener took their luggage into the house. A cloud passed over the sun.
Since before Rachel was born, her mother and father had worked at the Hall. Father managed the farm and kept the accounts; he also collected the rent from the tenant farms.
Her mother ran the house very well and supervised the servants when the house was in use.
Major Potts and Lady Agnes spent much time in India, but the Hall had belonged to the Potts for generations; it must be kept going and it must turn a profit, to augment the Major’s army pay.
Unfortunately, army through and through as he was, the Major never made allowances for poor seasons or bad prices, which meant stormy scenes so the Garnett family dreaded the Major’s visits. The rest of the staff was also nervous; Janet, a tiny maid just out of school, had never faced her employers before. With shaking hands, the girl prepared the tea tray and with a deep breath, Rachel took it into the drawing room.
Lady Agnes sat erect with her head tipped well back, looking down her nose. ‘You’ve changed, Garnett,’ she said. ‘How old are you?’
Well, what did she expect in four years? Rachel had been a lass of seventeen four years ago, but now she was a young woman. ‘Yes, m’lady. I’m twenty-two.’
‘I shall have to decide what’s to be done with you.’
Rachel felt cold. Lady Agnes had ignored her until now, but she seemed to think that she owned the Garnetts, body and soul, to be disposed of as she saw fit.
To be fair, the subject of what was to be done with Rachel had sometimes been discussed by her family as she grew up. Teaching little ones in a village school would be ideal, but there wasn’t enough money to pay for her training. The college for women in Ripon had been training teachers for thirty years and the idea of learning there was attractive.
‘Working with us suits you,’ Mother had decided. ‘And you’ll be wed before long, I’m sure.’
‘The Major will maybe expect you to stay at the Hall and work here as you are now,’ Kit Garnett had said thoughtfully. Rachel had helped out in their home and at the Hall since leaving school. ‘Until you get married, that is, and settle down.’
Now the Major looked up from pouring whisky from a hip flask into his cup of tea.
‘Tell Garnett to report to me in the morning,’ he barked.
‘Yes, sir. Will that be all, my Lady?’ Rachel turned for the door.
‘It will not. Come here, girl.’ Lady Agnes looked her over as though she were a sheep at a sale. ‘You can read and write, I suppose? Write down a list of what you can do. Bring it to me after breakfast tomorrow. It is time I took an interest in the staff.’
The Major snorted, just before Rachel closed the door. ‘Waste of time, Agnes. Village women get married and that’s that.’
The old farmhouse seemed a haven of security, now that the Hall was occupied once more. After supper, Kit Garnett lit the oil lamp and went through his accounts, preparing his report. Ruth spread out her herbs to dry in the stillroom and Rachel took out a piece of paper and a pencil. It wouldn’t take long to make a list of her skills, but what did Lady Agnes have in mind?
Her father shook his head. ‘It’s so long since they were here, nobody knows what to expect. Donald says the Major’s not in the best of tempers.’ Donald the groom had driven them home from the railway station in Masham. ‘He thinks they won’t stay long. Not much luggage, they’ll be off back to London soon.’
‘I hope so,’ Rachel murmured. Perhaps Lady Agnes’s interest in her would not last long.
Rachel took up her pencil to make a list of her virtues. To start with, she could read and write very well … but would that be seen as giving her ideas above her station? Kit Garnett had passed on to his only child a love of reading, as well as an interest in science.
Secondly, Rachel’s head was full of plants and their uses. She had been taught by her mother how to prepare herb teas, salves and lotions, but this was old-fashioned stuff for cottagers. Those who could afford it called in the doctor, these days.
Should she add her farm skills to the list? It was Rachel’s job to milk the Hall house cows and to make butter and sometimes, soft cheese in the summer. She helped her father with the sheep at busy times, such as lambing and shearing, and fed the pigs. The animals at the Grange had a good life; Rachel and her father saw to that.
She could cook and clean, like all the village women. If she’d been a lad, how different things would be… .
A knock at the door made them jump. Jim Angram, bachelor of the parish, loomed on the doorstep. ‘Come out for a walk, lass, it’s a grand night.’
With a nod of consent from her father, Rachel slipped out and they wandered through the orchard and across the road, to where the river flowed quietly down the valley.
‘Keep out of sight of the house,’ Rachel warned. ‘Major’s back.’
Jim laughed. ‘Everybody knows Major’s back. I’ve come to see if you’ve survived! Thank goodness my dad’s not a tenant of his. Things are hard enough, without him stamping and shouting.’
‘Shush!’ Rachel looked round nervously, but there was no one else in the green lane. ‘Lady Agnes says she doesn’t know what to do with me.’
‘Tell her you’re going to marry me,’ the lad said carelessly. ‘That should keep her quiet. We know it’ll happen one day.’
‘One day! It’s years away! Jim, you know that your dad’s not going to give up the farm just to let you take over, not until he’s ready. I think we should forget about it … for now, at any rate.’
Rachel didn’t want to upset him, but Jim was a casual suitor. She liked him, but there was no real bond between them. Maybe this was how most country girls found a husband, but there was no excitement in it.
Serene in the half light, Jim slid an arm round her waist. ‘You’re my girl, you know it.’
A nice lad, Jim, but not the love of her life. ‘Jim, you might find another lass, you know, one that you can’t live without. Wait and see.’ Jim shook his head.
The evening light was lovely; the sheltered valley gave back the warmth of the day. The last of the sunset faded behind the moor as Rachel turned back to the house. I’m not sure that I want to wait about for years, for the chance to be a small farmer�
��s wife… . But how can I tell him that? Impulsively she turned to him.
‘Should you like to go to Australia, Jim? We could start a new life, see the rest of the world …’
An owl flew by on silent wings as the dusk deepened over the familiar landscape. The silence lengthened.
‘Nay, we’ll not do that,’ Jim said, decisive for once. They walked back to the farmhouse in silence. Rachel opened the door to let him in, but he gave her a brief peck on the cheek and turned away. ‘Night, love. Good luck with the Major.’
With a sigh, Rachel closed the door on the glimmering landscape and went into the kitchen, which felt stuffy. She and Jim were like an old married couple, with nothing new to say. Where was the romance?
Ruth Garnett noticed her daughter’s sigh. ‘What ails you, Rachel? Think on, there’s many a lass would be thrilled to be walking out with Jim. He’s a big strong lad, nice-looking too, with his fair hair and blue eyes. Count your blessings, lass, and try to be cheerful.’
Rachel sat at the table and took up her pencil once more. Not only had she to list her accomplishments, she now had to count her blessings as well. Of course Jim was a blessing, with a nice little farm to come – eventually; a little higher on the social scale than the Garnetts, though not so well educated.
By the time she went to bed, Rachel had mentally added a few more lines to her list of desirable accomplishments: I can put up with folks telling me what’s good for me, I do as I’m told, I think my own thoughts.
The next morning dawned with mist, rain falling from the dark sky. Kit went round the sheep while Rachel milked the cows and fed the calves. Her mother had gone over to the Hall to supervise the big breakfast that the Major always demanded. She would keep a close eye on things for the first few days.
Bracing himself, Kit went to see the Major at nine o’clock. Rachel was crossing the yard with scraps for the hens when a horseman rode in. He swung down from a big bay horse, drenched with rain but smiling happily.
‘Rachel Garnett, good morning! Does it always rain like this up here? It’s wonderful! It’s a fine morning down in Pateley.’ It was the man she’d mistaken for a ghost in the old house.