A Mother's Sacrifice

by Catherine King

  Quinta had followed her mother from the scullery with blood on her hands. She stood behind her and listened.

  ‘I want to talk to your father,’ Laura said. ‘Bring out the gun first and put it by the fallen tree where I can see it. Then ask him to step outside.’

  Mr Ross did as her mother asked and his father limped towards them leaning heavily on his crutch. Quinta held her breath and hoped they would not turn nasty towards them.

  ‘That’s far enough,’ Mother said. ‘Who are you and where are you from?’

  ‘George Ross, ma’am. I hail from the South Riding.’

  ‘You have kin in these parts?’

  ‘Orphaned as a child, ma’am, and sent out as a gamekeeper’s lad when I was ten.’

  The mention of a respectable trade impressed Quinta. Her mother, too, she guessed, for Laura did not reply immediately. A gamekeeper was trusted; unless he turned poacher, of course.

  ‘That’s not a gamekeeper’s gun.’

  ‘No, ma’am. I was a rifleman in the Duke of Wellington’s army.’

  ‘A soldier?’

  ‘A sergeant, ma’am. I fought at Waterloo.’ He put a hand on his thigh. ‘Where I got this.’

  Quinta saw her mother’s eyes widen. A sergeant! And a war hero! It was before Quinta was born but folk still talked of England’s victory over Old Boney in France.

  ‘Will your son mend our roof?’

  ‘He will, ma’am. And fill your woodshed and be pleased to.’

  Quinta saw Patrick Ross frown and guessed he wasn’t exactly ‘pleased’ about their arrangement. She began to feel proud of her side of the bargain. ‘There are tiles in the cowshed,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I found them,’ he replied briefly.

  ‘Two nights?’ Laura asked.

  ‘If you please, ma’am,’ the sergeant replied. ‘I should be much obliged to you.’

  ‘Have you food?’ Quinta blinked in surprise at her mother’s change of tone.

  ‘A brace of partridge, ma’am.’

  Partridge! Quinta hadn’t tasted that since her father had died.

  ‘Where did they come from?’

  ‘The moor. But I see one or two have a taste for your garden greens,’ Sergeant Ross answered.

  ‘Yes, they do.’

  ‘May I ask who owns the woodland?’

  ‘Belongs to the Hall on the other side of the stream. I hope our rabbit isn’t from there. I want nothing to do with any poaching.’

  ‘We took it from the moorland.’

  ‘Well, that’s allowed. Anything this side of the stream is ours.’

  His son, who had been standing quietly by his side until now, said, ‘You have snares in your cowshed. Why do you not set them?’

  ‘Father used to do that for us.’ As she spoke, Quinta remembered how he put them down to keep rabbits off their garden as much as to give them dinners. But she didn’t know how to snare a rabbit, only how to how to skin and gut them on the kitchen slab. She looked at the blood drying on her fingers and added impulsively, ‘I’m sure I could do that, Mother, if someone showed me how.’

  Mother cast an impatient glance in her direction. ‘You may take wood for a fire,’ she said shortly.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Sergeant Ross passed a gnarled hand over his unkempt beard. ‘I am in need of hot water.’

  ‘Two nights,’ Laura repeated. ‘Good evening to you.’

  ‘Good evening, ma’am. Miss.’ He bowed his head, turned and limped back into the cowshed. His son followed silently, and was soon at work again on the cowshed roof.

  ‘Make sure you keep the door barred, Quinta. And don’t let either of them inside for anything. Do you hear me?’

  Chapter 5

  The following morning Quinta went out at daybreak to fetch water from the stream. She hoped to be safely back indoors before Sergeant Ross and his son stirred from their sleep.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Haig.’

  ‘Oh!’ Quinta thought she was early enough to avoid the travellers, but Mr Ross was already by the water with an old bucket from the cowshed.

  ‘This rock is the best spot,’ she advised, stepping on to the flat boulder. She dipped an empty bucket into the fast-flowing water. When she straightened he had straddled the gap between bank and stones and was stretching out his hand for her bucket.

  ‘Give it here,’ he said.

  She hesitated at first then handed it over. He did not seem so threatening in the morning sun. She dipped another bucket into the water and handed it up to him. ‘Pass me yours and I’ll fill it for you while I’m here.’

  ‘Thank you. My father likes a dish of tea in the mornings.’

  Quinta had watched him light a fire and set up a wooden trivet at the side of the cowshed last evening. He had mended the roof until nightfall the previous day and his father never came out to lend a hand; neither did he tend to the fire, or the partridge as it roasted on its makeshift wooden spit.

  ‘Is your father’s leg improved this morning?’ she asked.

  Mr Ross frowned and nodded. ‘He should rest it more.’

  ‘Did he really fight at Waterloo?’

  ‘He nearly died there.’

  ‘Were you with him?’

  He half laughed; scornfully, she thought. ‘I wasn’t born then. How old do you think I am?’

  She shrugged and didn’t answer. It was hard to tell, but apparently he was younger than she’d realised. Waterloo was twenty years ago.

  He turned and stared at their cowshed and his face darkened as he said, ‘I didn’t even know I had a father until he came to find me afterwards.’ He sounded angry, almost bitter.

  ‘Has his leg troubled him ever since?’

  He lifted two of the heavy buckets, leaving her with one. ‘He should have a surgeon to look at it.’

  ‘There isn’t one here. He has to come out from town for folk who can pay him. There’s a Dispensary in town, though, for the labourers in the manufactories. Your father would be better off in the town. You can take a carrier cart from the village in the valley.’

  ‘I see.’

  Good, thought Quinta. Mother would be pleased to hear they would be moving on soon.

  They walked slowly to the cottage, carrying the buckets of water.

  ‘When did you last use that donkey cart in your shed?’ he asked.

  ‘One of the shafts is broken.’

  ‘I can see that. I could mend it for you.’

  ‘We haven’t got a donkey any more.’

  ‘You could push it yourself. You look strong enough.’

  Maybe I could, she thought. I could push it to market and sell our vegetables. ‘Mother says it needs a new piece of wood.’

  ‘There’s some across the rafters in there.’ He tossed his head to indicate the cowshed. ‘Have you got any nails?’

  They had some upstairs in her father’s tool box. ‘We can’t pay you,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll fix it if your mother will let us stay a few more nights.’

  She didn’t think it was a good idea to encourage strangers. But they needed the cart fixing. ‘I’ll ask her,’ she said.

  They parted at the cowshed door and Mr Ross went inside to his father.

  Quinta placed the heavy buckets of water outside the scullery door and straightened her back, taking a few minutes to enjoy the clean fresh air. She felt his presence before she saw him, astride his horse beyond their cottage on the track up to the moor. What was Farmer Bilton doing there at this hour of the morning? Angrily, she marched towards him.

  ‘You have no right to spy on us like this!’

  ‘I’m looking out for my property. I’ve heard there are vagrants about.’

  She wondered if he had seen the sergeant and his son. ‘Well, this is our land, not yours!’

  ‘Only while you pay me rent.’

  ‘We’ll get your money.’

  He sneered and swung down off his horse, leaving the reins trailing. ‘Why hasn’t your ma been to see me about yo
u yet?’

  ‘She - she’s poorly.’

  ‘She’s stubborn, you mean!’ He grabbed her arm roughly and yanked her towards him. ‘My patience is running out.’

  ‘Let go! You’re hurting me!’

  He ignored her plea and shook her as if to emphasise his strength. ‘I will have my way. If you don’t want to end up with no home you’ll make that clear to her.’

  ‘You can’t make us do what you want!’

  ‘Can’t I? I have the vicar on my side.’ His fingers bit painfully into her flesh.

  ‘He won’t be if I tell him about this!’

  He relaxed his hold on her and replied, ‘You would try the patience of a saint.’

  She broke free, rubbing her bruised arm vigorously. ‘And you can get off our farm!’

  His mouth turned down in a grimace, but he gathered the reins and remounted. Quinta watched him ride away, taking the time to calm down. They were well away from the cottage but she hoped Mother hadn’t heard any of this conversation; they needed their cart mended more than ever now and she went indoors to tell her about Mr Ross’s offer.

  Laura was suspicious. ‘Why does he want to help us?’

  ‘He’s asked to stay a few more days in our cowshed,’ Quinta explained. If he doesn’t go off with the cart when he’s fixed it, she thought suddenly.‘He said his father had to see a surgeon.’ She realised that was why he had offered to mend the cart. Not for them but to take his father to town. She had thought it was a good idea at first, but now she wasn’t sure and added, ‘You are right, Mother, he wants the cart for himself and not for us.’

  ‘I knew it! They’ll steal everything from us and you as well!’

  ‘Do be calm, Mother. Who would want to steal me?’

  ‘Farmer Bilton wanted to take you from me, my love.’

  He still does, she thought, but said, ‘The garden is growing well now. If we took a cartload of crops to market we might manage the rest of the rent at Midsummer.’

  ‘What? Sell all our young vegetables?’

  ‘They’ll fetch a good price this year and we can buy flour and sugar.’

  ‘And scented soap and beeswax candles,’ her mother breathed.

  ‘Well, don’t forget we’ll have to save some seed for me to plant as well,’ Quinta countered. ‘Oh Mother, do let Mr Ross mend our cart. We haven’t been to town for ages.’

  ‘It’s a long way, my love. And a cartload of vegetables will be heavy to push.’

  ‘Seth might help, Mother. It’s mostly downhill until we get to the Hall. And it won’t have as much in it on the way back.’

  ‘Well, I’m not much use these days.’

  ‘Nonsense! I’ll go to the Dispensary for more of your cough mixture.’ Quinta felt excited by their plans. ‘Oh, Mother, you were right. Something has turned up for us.’

  But her mother was still dreaming. ‘We’ll buy meat pies for our dinner and - and - and an orange, an orange each. We must go to the draper too, and buy ribbons.’

  ‘And pay Farmer Bilton his rent?’ They both went quiet as they pondered on this. Then Quinta added, ‘Even if we do, Mother, he doesn’t want us here any more. What if he turns us out?’

  ‘Your father was a legal tenant. Besides, the Squire will have something to say if he does.’

  ‘What’s he got to do with it?’

  ‘He - he - his father arranged the tenancy in the first place.’

  ‘You’ve never told me why, Mother. What did my father do for him?’

  ‘He was a good servant,’ Laura said in a rush.

  ‘Why did the old Squire let him go, then?’

  ‘Do stop quizzing me! It’s all in the past now.’

  ‘Quite so, and the new Squire is all for changing things. He’ll side with Farmer Bilton and say I should wed him.’

  Her mother looked away and did not answer, which made Quinta think that she was right about this. ‘We ought to find somewhere else to live,’ she suggested gently.

  ‘Aye, we might do that. I don’t want to live in the town, though. It makes me cough so much.’

  Quinta privately thought that anything and everything made her mother cough these days. Perhaps when she was at the Dispensary she could ask for some stronger medicine than her usual mixture.

  ‘Maybe there’ll be a gentleman in town looking for a housekeeper? ’ Quinta added brightly. She actually thought that even if there were, he’d have plenty to choose from in town and not be interested in a poorly widow, but she added with a smile, ‘The cook at the Hall will vouch for you.’

  A week later, Patrick Ross and his father were still living in the cowshed. The roof was sound and their stock of wood for the fire was rising every day. Quinta did not meet him at the stream again; he went earlier and she did not see him. Only when she worked in the garden and he was sawing or chopping wood did he acknowledge her, with a formal bow of his head. She hardly knew he was there until he wheeled the mended cart out one sunny morning.

  ‘He’s finished it, Mother.’

  ‘What’s that, dear?’

  ‘Our cart. It’s mended. Come and see.’

  The two women stood side by side at the window. ‘Shall we go outside?’ Laura suggested.

  ‘Where’s the sergeant? I can’t see him anywhere.’

  ‘He rests inside the cowshed for most of his time. I think we can trust them now.’

  ‘I’m not so sure, Mother,’ Quinta cautioned.

  ‘Well, they would have been off by now if they were going to steal from us.’

  Quinta lifted the wooden bar from across their front door and turned the heavy key in its lock. She took her mother’s hand and together they stepped outside. Patrick Ross was wheeling the cart around and checking its wheels.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am. Miss.’ He nodded briefly in their direction. ‘Your cart is as good as new. It was well made in the first place.’

  ‘Indeed it was,’ Laura replied. ‘My late husband learned his carpentry from a master.’

  He swivelled the shafts around. ‘Miss Haig? Can you push it?’

  Quinta took hold of the shafts. It was heavy and unwieldy but she soon got used to it. However, she wondered how much extra weight she could manage.

  ‘How is your father?’ Laura asked.

  ‘He is much improved, thank you, ma’am.The rest has helped him.’

  ‘Will he take refreshment with us?’

  ‘Mother, no!’ Quinta tugged at her mother’s hand.

  ‘Fetch a jug of ale and mugs from the scullery, dear.’

  When Sergeant Ross came out of the cowshed, they saw he had shaved and his boots and coat were brushed so that he looked clean and tidy, though Quinta was surprised at how pale he was. His face showed the strain of continuous pain and he kept closing his eyes as he moved carefully with the aid of his crutch.

  ‘Sit down, Father.’ Mr Ross moved the wooden tray from where Quinta had placed it on a mounting stone outside the cowshed.

  ‘Over here.’ Quinta pointed to an upturned half-barrel that served as a table. She was aware that Mr Ross was watching her as she poured the ale and handed him the largest of their stoneware mugs. He nodded his thanks wordlessly and his serious features sent a shiver of uneasiness down her spine. He had not shaved and his dark growth of beard gave him an unkempt, hostile appearance. She was not as sure as her mother that either of them could be trusted. He carried the ale to his father who swallowed it easily and with relish.

  ‘I should like to stay longer, Mrs Haig,’ his father said. ‘Until my leg has recovered enough to make the journey into town. My son can work on your farm to pay rent for your cowshed. If I may say so, ma’am, there is much to be done here.’

  ‘We do our best,’ Quinta answered quickly.

  ‘Indeed you do, miss. Forgive me, my comment is not meant as criticism to your good selves. I merely observe that this is fertile land that is underused.’

  As though we do not know that, Quinta thought impatiently.

 
; The sergeant continued, ‘With my son’s help you can grow more to fill your barrow for market, and for your own winter larder.’

  ‘A full barrow is of little use without a donkey,’ Quinta responded irritably. ‘I shall not be able to push it.’

  ‘I can.’ It was the first words Patrick Ross had spoken about the venture.

  ‘We have to sell as much as we can before quarter day,’ Laura said thoughtfully.

  Quinta noticed father and son exchange glances and realised that they had discussed her and Mother and made an accurate assessment of their circumstances. She felt humiliated that her mother had made it more obvious to these strangers that they were failing. ‘I’ve told you, Mother, I can find work at the Hall,’ she chided.

  ‘There’s a big market in town on Midsummer’s Eve, dear,’ Laura responded.

  In time to pay our rent, Quinta thought.

  ‘It is not many weeks until then, ma’am,’ the sergeant added. ‘Already my leg is less swollen and I should like to rest here longer, if I may.’

  His son stood by silently, his face expressionless as though the decision did not involve him. Yet he would be doing the work. Quinta tugged at her mother’s hand and said, ‘They are strangers. I don’t think we should.’

  Then Mr Ross spoke again. ‘I told you, Father, we are not wanted here.’

  ‘But you are,’ Laura responded hastily, ‘if you can farm as well as you mend things.’

  ‘My son was raised on a farm.’

  The sergeant was a farmer then, Quinta thought, and said, ‘You told us you were a soldier.’

  ‘And that is true, miss. How do you think I got a French musket ball in my leg? They took it out on the battlefield and nearly killed me in the process.’ He grimaced as he spoke and then added, ‘But I lived, although this knee has not been right since. My son has farmed his way across England through all seasons as I hope you will discover. Now, can we stay or not, Mrs Haig?’

  ‘Until Midsummer,’ Laura answered.

  Quinta marvelled at the improvement in her mother’s appetite and strength. She tended the fire, cooked and baked more, leaving Quinta to work in the garden full time. Patrick Ross worked from early morning at the far side of their land near to the moorland, where the pasture was overgrown with bramble and scrub. He sharpened tools, cleared ditches and tamed hedges until dusk and she saw little of him. His father became more mobile and came out frequently with his rifle to shoot rabbit, partridge and wood pigeon that dared to approach their vegetables. Laura returned the sergeant’s frequent gifts of meat with fresh oat biscuits and pots of nourishing broth that Quinta left on the mounting stone. Mr Ross seemed to avoid her, but one warm afternoon, his father came over to her garden and stood watching her at work.