Deep Waters

by Ann Cliff

  Rachel glared at him. ‘Of course not. But what’s good about it? We’ve had enough rain this month, there’s oats to harvest yet.’ Was the lad mad? She could see as he took off the big hat that Beckwith went on smiling.

  ‘A high rainfall is just what we want, you see. We’ve been looking for a place like this. Water is very important, young lady, and you have plenty of it.’

  What did he mean? Was he serious? Rachel suddenly remembered her manners. ‘Have you come to see Father? He’s with the owner at present, I can tell him you’re here if you like. Come under the barn, out of the rain.’ Her father could deal with this confident young man who talked in riddles. Up here in the hills of Nidderdale, visitors were usually on some sort of business.

  Kit Garnett emerged from the Hall looking flustered, and no wonder, he’d been with the Major. Rachel introduced him to the visitor and went about her business, but before she drove the geese across the yard she lingered, trying to hear what the man said. The geese, let out from their night pen, were happy to pause on their way down to the pond.

  ‘Wonderful location … impervious geology … is the owner likely to see me today?’

  Father was looking grimmer than ever, it was time to go. Rachel waved her long stick and the geese obediently turned and went through the gate in single file, sedately walking through the orchard. The rain didn’t affect them, but Rachel felt a trickle of water down her neck and shivered.

  As they passed the ivy-covered walls of the Hall, Rachel felt eyes upon her. From an upstairs window, Lady Agnes was watching the slow procession to the water. The Lady, it seemed, had decided to take an interest in farming. Well, she could help to pluck the geese at Christmas if she wanted to get her hands dirty, but that wasn’t likely. It was always Rachel’s job and the butchers in Masham depended on her for their Christmas geese.

  The morning wore on, the rain still fell. Rachel was busy in the farmhouse kitchen, making a stew for dinner when her father came in. His mind was running on what the Major had told him.

  ‘We’ve got to make more profit,’ he said gloomily. ‘How, I don’t know … I thought he’d be happy with last year’s results, but he wants more. He can’t very well put up the rents for the tenants, so he comes back to me. More profit. We’ll have to carry more stock.’

  ‘Never mind, Father, have a cup of tea,’ Rachel murmured. ‘And take your wet coat off, you’ll catch a cold. Now, who is that visitor? He talked differently to us and he didn’t make sense. Seemed to think it was wonderful to get wet!’

  ‘Don’t worry about him, lass. Major’ll deal with young Roger Beckwith, of that I’m sure.’ A brief smile crossed Kit’s brown face.

  Through the open kitchen door, Rachel heard a commotion in the yard. Peering out, she saw the Major stamping through the wet, roaring. The young man was striding towards his horse, but not fast enough for the Major, who pushed him roughly.

  ‘OUT! Get out of here and don’t come back! Never heard such rubbish in my life!’

  The Major continued to fume, but he was ignored, which probably made it worse. Deliberately Roger Beckwith tightened the girth, untied his horse and mounted. He was still smiling and he waved to Rachel as he went out of the yard, leaving the Major standing in a puddle of water, flailing his arms in a very different salute.

  ‘You didn’t know young Roger? I remembered him, once he said who he was. He’s Dr Beckwith’s son, they used to come up dale on holidays when he was a lad. He went to be an engineer, must be out of his training by now.’ Kit shut the kitchen door firmly, blotting out the sight of the Major in the yard. ‘Forget about him, lass, it was nothing. We’ve more to worry about than Roger.’

  Rachel forgot about the visitor immediately, because her mother came to fetch her.

  ‘Her Ladyship wants to see you, look sharp and brush your hair, now.’

  By the time Rachel tiptoed through the rain to the Hall, the Major had disappeared. Lady Agnes was in the library, sitting at a desk.

  ‘Ah, the goose girl,’ she said briskly. ‘I believe you have been helping at home since you left school. Your father tells me that you are available to work and I propose to supervise you myself.’ This sounded far more businesslike than the remote being of yesterday. Then the sting in the tail: ‘Your father is the farm manager, of course, but he would be inclined to be too lenient with you as his own child.’

  Not so I’ve noticed, she thought ruefully. Rachel’s heart sank; this sounded as though they expected to stay at the Hall.

  ‘Wha-what would you like me to do, m’lady?’

  ‘The geese took my fancy, this morning. Tell me about them, goose girl.’

  This was easier than talking about herself, but wasn’t the Goose Girl in a fairy story?

  ‘Well, we buy goslings from a poultry farm and pen them till they feather, then turn them out on grass down by the beck. They eat grass, and a bit of grain. We sell a few at Michaelmas, ready dressed, and the rest at Christmas. I lock them in a hut at night, or the fox’ll get them.’

  Lady Agnes wanted more. Her cold eyes were piercing as she turned them on her goose girl. How much did each gosling cost, how much grain did they eat, what was the end price for the dressed bird?

  ‘It does vary, especially the grain in a bad harvest…’ As it happened, Rachel knew how much profit there was in keeping geese. She and her father had done calculations once. ‘Plucking and dressing’s the worst job and it takes time… .’

  ‘That’s what you are paid for. I think we should breed the birds ourselves, and keep more of them.’

  ‘Yes, m’lady. But you can only breed geese in spring.’

  ‘And it’s September … well, I shall have to think of something else. But be sure that you find some goose eggs, next spring.’

  TWO

  Rachel managed to avoid Lady Agnes for the next few days, as Her Ladyship paid a round of duty visits to her dear friends and relations. In the four years the Potts had been away, the friends had been seldom in touch and she wanted to remind them of her continued existence.

  Donald Metcalfe, the groom and handyman, trundled out the dog cart in the afternoons, praying that it wouldn’t rain because that would mean wet gear and her Ladyship angry. It was good to get out round the countryside again, though Donald knew he had the best job at the Hall. His wife told him so, on every possible occasion.

  Willow Grange was the destination on a mild and sunny day towards the end of the week, the residence of Lady Agnes’s cousin Sybil Walton and her husband Rupert, a retired judge. Donald sometimes pondered the fact that the gentry always ‘resided’ in a country seat or a town house, whereas ordinary folk just ‘lived’ in a cottage or a farmhouse. This was a bigger estate than Major Potts’s and like his, the land was mainly in the valley, sheltered from the cold north winds.

  The Major excused himself from the visit on the grounds that he was too busy cleaning his guns. He disliked duty visits. Donald was relieved; the Major sometimes liked to take the reins and drive faster than was safe, to frighten his wife as well as to get the visit over quickly. The last thing a groom wanted was a horse with grazed knees and broken harness.

  Lady Agnes decided to enjoy the afternoon. As they rolled through the stone gateway of Willow Grange, it was obvious that improvements had been made since her last visit some years ago. Rupert must be spending his retirement bothering the gardeners.

  The stately trees lining the drive had been cut back in places to reveal statues and mysterious grottoes. There were fleeting, picturesque glimpses of the moors beyond the estate. Lady Agnes smiled to herself; surely no one would keep a hermit in a grotto, these days? Little winding paths led away into a shrubbery. The Grange was on a south-facing slope and this, together with a walled kitchen garden much bigger than the Potts’, meant that they could put on a better show than was possible at Firby Hall.

  As the house came into sight, Lady Agnes saw another new feature: a little waterfall cascading over rocks, through ferns and into a pool
lined with water lilies. It was presided over by a stone nymph with a smug expression. Smooth lawns rolled down to a ha-ha, beyond which fluffy, clean sheep grazed. It was all too much. Why could the Hall not look more civilized, more in fashion?

  Everyone had statues, except the Potts. She would speak to Garnett, tell him that the Hall grounds were out of date, medieval in fact, and must be landscaped. The Hall was two hundred years behind the times. It had no space around it, the formal garden was tiny and the farmyard was far too close. The only thing she could boast about was its age.

  ‘My dear Agnes, I know what you would like. Come with me, we will take a walk.’ Sybil Walton and her cousin were standing on the terrace at Willow Grange, looking out across the sunlit fields.

  Lady Agnes smiled. ‘I see you haven’t changed, Sybil. You always preferred the fresh air to the drawing room.’ No doubt she was to be shown Rupert’s improvements.

  A smooth gravel path led through the gardens to a gate into the park, a gate that opened easily without a sound and Sybil sighed. There was so much to do at home and so few servants. They really must try to be more efficient … it seemed that she was to be spared a tour of the garden.

  Under the shade of oak trees was a group of black cattle, cows and calves, resting, chewing the cud thoughtfully.

  ‘Now,’ said Sybil proudly, ‘do you know what these are?’ One of the cows stood up, stretched and walked towards them and Sybil scratched its head between the horns. ‘This is Rupert’s pride and joy,’ Sybil added. ‘We have started a dairy, you know. Our dairymaid makes cheese, as well as butter and cream. Of course, you won’t be able to do anything like this.’

  ‘Why not?’ Lady Agnes enquired crossly. She looked over the back of the little cow at her cousin. ‘We have cows, and milk and cream.’ She would tell Rachel Garnett to make cheese. That would give the girl something to do and it might be possible to sell it, to make the farm more profitable.

  ‘Well, it’s rather different for you, away in India so much of the time. We do like to supervise, to make sure everything is done properly… .’ Of course they did. The whole place looked thoroughly supervised.

  ‘How small they are! This cow is much smaller than our house cows. What breed are they, Sybil?’

  ‘These are Dexter-Kerry, from a poor part of Ireland, you know. The Duchess of Devonshire breeds them, they are quite fashionable now. Being in India, you won’t have seen anything of farming for a long time. Rupert believes that they have a good future.’

  Lady Agnes nodded wisely; she knew nothing about cattle and was rather afraid of them. The little black cows looked less fearsome than the ones they had at home.

  ‘They were originally a poor man’s cow, of course, but they look well in the park and they produce wonderful milk for cheese. And then, the meat is excellent, so we plan to increase the herd.’

  The visitor’s brain began to race. This might be just the thing for Firby Hall and that great girl Rachel could work a few more hours. ‘But surely these cows are too small to make much profit? Or do I sound vulgar?’

  Sybil smiled and managed to look just like the nymph in the grotto. ‘But they are so economical! Rupert says they eat anything, all the weeds, and of course more animals of this size can be kept on the acreage. And they look so sweet, do they not? All my friends are entranced by them!’ The old girl was more animated than Agnes had seen her.

  On the way home, Lady Agnes was thoughtful.

  ‘Have you heard of Dexter-Kerry cattle, Metcalfe?’ she asked the groom.

  ‘Aye, m’lady. That’s what’s in park yonder, they’re tough little beggars, folks say.’ He waved the whip in the direction of the Grange behind them. ‘All gentry seem to be keeping them these days – it’s a fashion, like.’

  First things first, Lady Agnes decided as they arrived back at the Hall. As a contrast with Willow Grange, it looked very old and plain. Garnett kept the place tidy, but there was nothing to boast about. The goose girl must be organized, she thought.

  Beside the front door stood a trap with a stylish horse in the shafts.

  ‘It’s Mr Richards, the solicitor and accountant, m’lady,’ Donald told her in reply to the raised eyebrows.

  Lady Agnes could hear her husband’s raised voice from the hall; there was trouble ahead. The library door opened and a man ducked out, nodded to her briefly and scurried down the hall to his vehicle. It seemed best to go upstairs, take off her hat and coat and wash her hands, gaining time before going down again.

  ‘I’m off back to India!’ the Major announced as soon as his wife appeared. He had obviously settled down and seemed rather pleased with the idea. ‘The only solution. You will have to stay here and organize the farm, make some money.’

  ‘Would you like to tell me who that man is, and what has happened?’ Lady Agnes glanced at the ornate gold clock on the mantelpiece and poured two small glasses of sherry.

  Major Potts shook his heavy head. ‘Our finances are dire, Agnes. It’s the shares again, I’m afraid, as well as Guy. That boy is a liability to us, he will have to mend his ways. Richards has paid some of Guy’s debts out of the main Hall account, he did it before we came home. Can’t you stop him gambling? Get him to come home, live quietly in the country for a while.’

  ‘But – India? Surely we can borrow some money…’ Agnes looked down at her diamond rings, put on for the visit to Sybil. She’d always said they were insurance for a rainy day.

  ‘I can’t stay on half pay, might have to go back to the army, to promotion if possible. We’ve no money to speak of, Richards says. He suggested I sell the Hall, but I won’t do that. Never sell the Hall, y’know. At least, I don’t think so. Not unless the price was right.’

  Sipping her sherry thoughtfully, Agnes surveyed her own options. Of course he should not sell the Hall; she wanted to improve it. On the bright side, she would have a free hand without the Major. But how much could she achieve with no money? She sighed.

  It was quite a challenge, but at least her husband would be far away. On the other hand, what should she do with Guy? Their adopted son and heir was now nineteen, with no sign of maturity. He should probably join the army, but a commission would be expensive and he might be tempted to gamble more often.

  If Guy could be persuaded to come home to Firby instead of lurking in the London house, they could perhaps interest him in the running of the estate. He could be an asset instead of a problem. They would appeal to his better nature and get him away from his gambling friends.

  ‘No, m’lady, it’s too late to hatch any more geese out this year. They’ve stopped laying.’ Rachel felt nervous; it wouldn’t do to lecture Lady Agnes. ‘We can keep more of this year’s flock for breeding next year, but then there’ll be less to sell. The butcher depends on us for Christmas geese.’

  Rachel was standing in front of the desk in the library, trying not to fidget. Her list of accomplishments had been received in silence, and after the geese, Lady Agnes started to ask about the milking cows.

  ‘Yes, m’lady, I can show you the dairy.’ Why would the woman want to see her dairy? It was spotless; she couldn’t find fault with it, Rachel thought as she led the way down the stairs and over the farmyard. Dairies had to be spotless at all times, or the milk would go bad.

  ‘Tell me all about it,’ Lady Agnes commanded.

  How much did she already know? ‘Our cows are Shorthorns, they’re out grazing until I bring them in for milking about four o’clock.’ They went into the cool, lime-washed room where the milk was handled. A large shallow pan of milk stood on a stone slab and Rachel explained that this was a setting pan. ‘Cream comes to the top of the milk and then I skim it off, cream for the House and to make butter.’

  Lady Agnes peered at the pan. ‘What do you do with the rest of the milk, after the cream has been skimmed off?’

  Rachel said patiently, ‘The skimmed milk goes to feed the calves and pigs. But I can make cheese with it, not the best cheese of course, it’s a bit har
d. M’lady.’

  Lady Agnes actually smiled. ‘So you know how to make cheese. You need not bore me with the details, but I would like you to make a batch of cheese tomorrow, with whole milk, no cream taken off. Bring it to the kitchen for our dinner tomorrow night.’

  Rachel tried not to panic; she was asking the impossible. ‘Well, m’lady, it won’t be ready by then. Proper cheese is put in a press and turned and bandaged … it’s pressed for a few days, and then, you wouldn’t want to eat it too fresh. It’s kept for a few months and turned every day, and …’ But her employer had lost interest.

  ‘Tell me how much cheese costs to produce and how much a grocer will pay for it. Ask Garnett to work it out.’ Lady Agnes swept from the dairy.

  Kit Garnett looked unusually serious as he took his place at the supper table, a week after Roger Beckwith’s visit. Rachel thought he must be worrying about one of the calves. ‘I think the red calf is better now, Father. She can have a full ration of milk tomorrow—’

  ‘Good, good,’ Kit said absently and his hands gripped the sides of the table. ‘I’m afraid there’s more to worry about than Bluebell’s calf. I probably should have told you before, but I never thought it would come to this.’

  ‘What’s wrong, love?’ his wife asked quietly.

  ‘They are going to build a reservoir up here, water for Leeds. I’m not sure just where, they are still working it out, but some of our land might – we might be under the water.’

  Ruth Garnett laughed. ‘They were talking about water when my father was a boy and it never came to anything. My pa always said we shouldn’t lose any sleep over it and he’s still there, farming his land … which reminds me, Rachel, you should bake a few scones and take them over to him tomorrow.’

  ‘Leeds and Bradford are even bigger than they were when your father was a lad and more desperate for water. We have the rain up here in the hills, we can’t deny it and the valleys are deep, just asking to be flooded.’ Kit Garnett shook his head.

  ‘But they can’t just take land, can they? The Major would never agree …’ Rachel realized that this was why Roger Beckwith had been here. Saying goodbye to the Hall, because it would disappear under the water.