by Ann Cliff
The milking was finished in good time.
‘Is there as much milk as usual?” Roger asked anxiously and Rachel assured him that there was.
Gangs of men opened up the roads, after which Nathan Brown went home to his farm. Roger was in no hurry to leave. He and Rachel had a week of quiet companionship, working together and talking as they had before the shadow of Jim Angram had come between them.
One evening as they were washing the milking pails, Roger said, ‘I’ll be going back to Leeds soon. More than ever, I want to keep in touch, to come to see you often, my love. Please don’t give up! Someday we may be able to see a way through.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t want to be like Jim and keep you waiting for years, but we belong together. ‘
Rachel felt relief steal over her in spite of her misgivings. This was not to be Roger’s last visit, after all. ‘If you leave Charlie here, you’ll have a horse to ride when you come back.’
His face lit up. ‘So you won’t insist on goodbye forever?’
Soon after this, Roger went to look for Kit and found him chopping kindling for the fires.
‘I’ll do that,’ he said and took the job over. Kit stood watching him and Roger said as he deftly split the wood, ‘Mr Garnett, I want to marry Rachel. Now I’ve found out that she’s not engaged to Jim after all … and I hope that you will approve.’
Kit looked serious. ‘And she, of course, feels the same about you. I had guessed as much. You’re a grand lad and part of our family already, Roger. But how do you mean to go on?’
‘That’s what we haven’t yet worked out. I can’t expect Rachel to live in Leeds, especially in the sort of cottage that I could afford. But how could I get a job in the country? I have wondered about learning to be a gamekeeper … what do you think?’
‘You’d have a tied house like we have, long hours and a small pay packet,’ Kit said promptly. ‘I suppose it’s a possibility … but things are changing, you know. Now that Firby is to be flooded, the estates in the valley will be broken up. Our family will be looking for another place …’ he dropped his voice. ‘Even without the dam, when Guy takes over, there will be no room for us. He has said so, and I fully agree. I won’t work for him.’
‘So it would be a good time to plan Rachel’s future. It might be easier to find a new place for two of you, rather than three.’
Kit put the pile of kindling into a wooden box and Roger straightened his back. ‘Mr Sutton told me once that he’d give me a farm to rent or manage if we left here and that’s always at the back of my mind.’
That night, the thaw set in. Water dripped from roofs and down spouts and made puddles in the yard. The warm breeze brought out the scent of the earth, making them think of spring.
‘If I can get to Masham tomorrow, I should be able to catch a train to Leeds,’ Roger said without much enthusiasm. ‘They will expect to see me back, I’ve no excuse now to stay longer.’
NINETEEN
Guy Potts emerged from hiding as the snow melted in the New Year, pleasing his mother if not the peasants. Rachel had better look out… . The bruises had faded and he had money again, having sold his father’s pocket watch in Ripon.
A thirst for drink was coming on and in spite of the danger from local louts, he decided to pay another visit to the Fox and Hounds. Trust Ma to hide the key of the wine cellar. He would try to keep quiet and not mention his plans for the estate, since the peasants objected so violently, although it was hard when they were so stupid. Once he inherited, he would drown the lot of them in Leeds water. Thanks to Guy Potts, the dam would go through. It should be called the Guy Potts Reservoir.
As Guy walked through the door of the inn he looked round warily, but the brutal Dale brothers were not there. On weekday evenings the drinkers were few. Two shepherds with dogs at their feet sat by the fire, discussing remedies for liver fluke, not the sort of topic Guy could stomach. It was enough to put you off your beer.
In one corner, a group of men looked up from their cards. ‘Let’s take the fat little squire’s cash,’ an apprentice blacksmith called Sam suggested. ‘Bound to be rolling in it, stands to reason. Big estate, he’s inherited it all.’
His friend Jake agreed. ‘Squire’ll have even more brass when he’s drowned the valley… .’ He raised his voice. ‘Come over here, Mr Guy. There’s a place for you at table. Put your brass down.’
Guy had heard it all and smiled to himself. ‘Do you really think you can beat me at cards?’ He put on more of an upper-class drawl than usual, to fool them. He saw them look at each other and smirk. ‘Hardly likely, old chap. But you can try.’
The blacksmith was all muscles and hair, it would not be wise to fall out with him.
At the bar, Richard Sayers the landlord stood guard with a truncheon in full view, evidently ready for trouble. Guy bought a tankard of beer, had a drink and pulled a face.
‘You’ve put water in it,’ he complained.
For some reason this seemed to annoy Sayers. ‘This beer was brewed in our cellar, it’s best in county,’ he said loudly. ‘If you don’t like it you needn’t bother.’
The card players laughed loudly.
‘Give me a bottle of whisky,’ Guy growled, gulped down the beer and went over to the card players with his bottle. They made room for him at the table. They were playing brag, a game similar to poker. Easy.
Taking a swig of whisky, Guy looked round the table. These peasants were no match for a man who had played frequently in the last few years, in London and during his tour of Europe. He had learned to play poker on ships travelling to India when he went to visit his parents, long before he left school.
The peasants did their best, but as card players they were no match for Guy Potts. Even as the level in his bottle went down, he could still hold his own. He was careful not to say anything that might annoy them; these were yokels, toughened by manual work, wiry and strong. Strength was the only thing he respected.
‘By gum, you’re a better card player than you are a fighter,’ Jake said after a while. ‘We never expected you to take brass off hard-working folks like us … Mister Guy.’
‘Do you want to play, or don’t you?’ Guy sneered. ‘You should stay at home if you can’t afford it.’
‘Go on then, we’ll try again.’ Try they did, but Guy beat them every time. When they started to whisper to each other, he threw down his cards.
‘That’s enough, I’m going home.’
The blacksmith stood up to his full height and Guy felt his bruises beginning to ache again. He pulled on his overcoat and left quickly, taking the whisky with him. He had cheated for some of the time, just for fun and he thought they knew it.
‘Let him go, don’t go after him,’ he heard Sayers tell the men. ‘We don’t want any more fights, this is a respectable house.’
They started to argue and Guy decided to move quickly, while Sayers still held them up. His muscles were still painful from the previous beating and another would not be welcome.
He stopped and took a deep drink of whisky, then lurched off up the road.
‘I’ll drown the lot of you, just wait!’ Guy muttered to himself. He should have told them before he left, about the Leeds water coming up to their ankles, then their knees…
Firby Hall was not far from the village, but they could catch him easily on the road; he was never a good walker and he hadn’t run since he left school. Guy heard the door of the bar open. Looking back, he saw light spilling out; they were coming for him. Three of them, wanting their money back. They would enjoy beating him. His only hope was to take a short cut to the farm track that led round the back of the Hall.
Kit Garnett had warned him not to take the short cut. ‘It’s not safe on dark nights, especially when you’ve been drinking. I am telling you for your own good.’
Guy could imitate the Yorkshire accent and the earnest expression. What was the man talking about – did he believe in ghosts? There were no ghosts. There were no leopards in Yorkshire either, lik
e the ones he’d been warned about in India. These peasants were afraid of their own shadow. They would learn to be afraid of Guy Potts.
Garnett was full of good advice, but he wouldn’t be in charge much longer. Even before the place was sold, Guy intended to get rid of all the Garnetts. If he could get them convicted of stealing, they might all end up in jail. He grinned at the thought. It would be a real taste of power and he looked forward to it. But before that, he had to catch Rachel Garnett and show her once and for all who was boss.
The card players were stumbling along the road, cursing; he could hear them plainly. The night was black as hell, no moon and the stars hidden in clouds. He was safe enough if he moved quietly; they would never find him.
Guy smothered a hiccup, walking as quietly as he could. There was a gate somewhere, he couldn’t remember just where it was. He blundered into a remnant patch of snow. It was time for another drink.
In the cold air, Guy felt the alcohol affecting his balance. He would have to push on, to save himself from the peasants. Why didn’t the louts know their place and treat him with respect? There seemed to be water under the snow.
Lady Agnes had made up her mind to send Guy to London. It was the only thing he would willingly do and it would get him away from Firby. That last beating had been serious, but she doubted whether he had learned his lesson. Guy was not in the dining room for breakfast on the morning after his card game, but then he seldom left his room before eleven. By lunch-time his mother began to lose patience. Once she had made up her mind, she liked to act on it straightaway. She had planned what to say to Guy and how to make him promise not to gamble or drink too much. When Cook brought in her lunch, she asked whether Mr Guy had been seen.
‘No, m’lady, but if you like I’ll go and look for him,’ Cook said obligingly. She knew not to send a maid to find Guy; they were kept out of his way.
Cook soon came back to report that Mr Guy was not in his room and his bed had not been slept in. Had he gone off to Ripon the evening before? Guy often went out without telling his mother where he was going, or when he would be back.
Trying to conceal her irritation, Lady Agnes asked for Ruth Garnett and when the housekeeper appeared, she suggested that the Garnetts might search for Guy. Was it possible that he had stayed in the village overnight?
Kit was out on the farm, supervising a ploughing team, so Ruth went to the stables. The coachman reported that none of the horses was missing.
‘He might be down there at Fox and Hounds yet,’ Metcalfe suggested. ‘He won’t be far away, not without taking a horse. I’ll take a look, when I’ve finished here.’
Donald Metcalfe trundled down to the public house towards the end of the afternoon, wondering what he would do with Guy. He decided not to confront the youth, who had treated him like dirt at all times. He would take a look and report back to Kit. The lad must be there, where else could he be? The farm horses would be back from ploughing soon and he liked to give a hand with them. Gentle giants, they were, much easier to do with than the skittish horse that Guy rode.
The landlord was polishing glasses when Donald appeared. ‘Now, how’s things up at Hall? Haven’t seen you here for a while, Mr Metcalfe.’
‘Nay, missus won’t allow it,’ the coachman said ruefully. He looked round cautiously.
‘Is Mr Guy here, by any chance? He seems to be missing.’
‘He’s not.’ Sayers leaned over the bar and said quietly, ‘That lad is a damned nuisance, as I’m sure you know. He was here last night, diddled some lads playing cards and went home early. With,’ he added, ‘a bottle of Scotch in his hand. He’s nasty enough sober, but when he’s drunk …’ He shook his head.
The two men looked at each other.
‘Where is he, then?’ Donald wondered. ‘He left here – and didn’t arrive home. Do you think the lads he gambled with would know?’
‘Nay,’ Sayers said firmly. ‘But I’ll ask them what they know. I’ll slip out for five minutes before we start the evening.’
Kit Garnett went to see Sayers when he heard the news. ‘Any clues as to where Guy’s gone? Not that I blame you, Richard. Lad’s old enough to look after himself.’
‘Nay, no news. I went to ask Sam, that was here last night. They went out after Guy, although I did my best to stop them. Sam and Jake, they were angry with him for taking their brass by cheating. Can’t blame ’em, neither. Sam said they went up the road a piece but couldn’t find him. They were back here again not long after, to get warm by the fire before going home.’ Sayers poured Kit a glass of beer. ‘No foul play, I’m certain of that. Although I’ve allus said he would meet a bad end.’
‘He’s taken the short cut, as I told him not to.’ Kit took a drink of beer. ‘A grand drop, this brew, Richard.’
‘I’m right glad you said that. Guy told me it was watered.’
Kit shook his head. ‘Looks as though he might have met a bad end, drinking and going on that track.’
‘Aye. That’s where pond is. Better tell PC Bradley, I’m thinking.’
Dusk had given way to night when Kit went home up the road, avoiding the short cut because it was too dark to see the way. The search would have to wait until daylight.
Lady Agnes decided that Guy had probably gone off to London. She had found that some of their antique silver was missing, so he would have had money for the journey.
The next day, Guy’s body was found in the duck pond not far from the farmyard. He lay face down in a few inches of water; a sober man would have been able to get up again. The police grimly took down all the details and recorded a death by misadventure. They believed the lads who said they had chased him and turned back. Guy was known even to the Ripon police as a man to watch.
Another Accident at Firby Hall, ran the headlines in the Herald. Rodney, Alex’s assistant, wrote a gloomy piece, coloured by local gossip of ghosts and curses. He linked the deaths of the Major and his son to the impending doom of the reservoir hanging over the valley.
‘Her Ladyship’s taking it badly,’ Ruth reported to Kit. ‘She blames herself for Guy’s behaviour, seems to think she should have been able to control him.’
‘I tried to help him, and I’m sorry I failed. But only Guy is to blame,’ Kit said.
Everyone at the Hall was saddened by the thought of a wasted life. Gloom hung over the entire village and his funeral was a quiet affair. Guy was laid to rest in the churchyard, amid a general feeling of relief.
A few days afterwards, Lady Agnes went to London to stay with her brother. She told Kit that she would live quietly for a while. Since coming home from India, life had been very difficult and Guy’s death was the last straw. Kit felt sorry for her.
Rachel felt guilty; she was so thankful that Guy was gone, would never accost her again. In time, she would stop looking over her shoulder and jumping at shadows.
The Garnetts were left in charge of the estate once more. The only threat to their future now was Mr Bromley and his Firby plan. Roger reported it was certain that Firby was to be the reservoir site. Guy had told them what they wanted to hear and they’re not going to change now, he wrote gloomily, in a loving letter to Rachel.
TWENTY
In the first week of February, Alex held a meeting of his publishing committee, in the boardroom of the Herald offices. Susan and Rachel were there, and Alex said he had a solicitor friend, Mr Denham, who was interested in the venture and would join a meeting at some future date. The meeting was arranged for a Thursday, which was market day in Ripon.
Rachel felt shy as she took her place at the long polished table, but Susan Sutton had a remedy for that.
‘We are very glad you could come, Rachel, we need your experience. I think you’ll enjoy planning this book!’
It had been an effort to get to Ripon, jogging along in the carrier’s cart squeezed between farmers’ wives going to market with their big butter baskets. Rachel would have to leave in time to catch the carrier’s homeward trip and would miss the
evening milking. But it was exciting to be here, to talk about making a book; a complete change of scene. Firby Hall was quiet, brooding, waiting for the axe to fall.
Alex said sympathetically that he imagined Firby would be a sad place, after the latest news. Rachel’s article with the reservoir decision had appeared in the same edition of the Herald as the headline about Guy’s death.
‘Tell me,’ he asked, passing Rachel a cup of tea, ‘do you think that there is a ghost? Rodney seems to think so. He saw the ghost of a monk once at Fountains Abbey, so he believes in them.’
Rachel hesitated. ‘Well … I have heard footsteps on the stairs, and in the Long Gallery … and sometimes there’s a cold feeling in certain places.’ She smiled. ‘Once I was terrified, it was getting dark, but the ghost turned out to be Roger Beckwith.’
Susan laughed. ‘How I would love to see a ghost! Perhaps we should hunt for one, now that Lady Agnes is not there. I don’t think she would mind.’
They were soon deep in plans for the recipe book. Rachel loved Susan’s drawings, so crisp and clear. Alex thought that two or three drawings could be displayed on one page.
They agreed that to produce a huge book like Mrs Beeton’s was not a good idea.
‘People want something different these days, so several smaller books would be popular,’ Susan told them.
Susan was always so definite; Rachel envied her confidence, but then her own had been eroded of late. Even Roger couldn’t give Rachel confidence. She felt the gulf between them, the difference between his life and hers, and she knew that he would tire of her in time. She would stick to her plan and soon, he would be gone from Firby and she would get over it. Roger had said he would come to Firby for a visit in March and that was when they would say goodbye.
The plan Rachel had in mind was a daring one for a woman; she wanted to earn a living from writing. To do that she would stay single and live with her parents into their old age. The first part of the plan was to help make a successful book for Alex’s new publishing house.