On the day that trouble finally came to Melbury village the sultry summer’s heat was at its height. Jessica’s mare had thrown a shoe and, it having been a very long time since Old Hall could support a smithy of its own as did New Hall, Jessica decided, riding the big Bay Dancer, to take the mare herself down into the village so that Jenson the blacksmith could reshoe her. It was a lovely day and a pleasant ride, in the dappled shade beneath the trees beside the river, whilst in the fields the brassy heat shimmered and the crops stood straight and still beneath a layer of summer dust.
It was late afternoon when she walked the two horses into the village street. Melbury was a straggling place, strung out along a mile of rutted road, the church at one end the ale house at the other and the smithy and its attached livery stables in the middle. Small cottages in various states of repair – or in some cases disrepair – were set singly or in groups upon each side of the road, most of them with small gardens, some well-tended, some not. A few more substantial dwellings were built about the green where stood the village pump and where now the duck pond had been reduced by the heat to little more than a sludgy puddle. The afternoon was still, and unusually quiet. A few children played in the dust of the street, but the old bench under the elm outside the ale house was empty and the green too was deserted. She was even more surprised to discover no sign of life when she reached the smithy, none of the habitual bustle of men and animals about the usually busy buildings. She rode Bay Dancer into the big barn, leading the mare, and tethered both horses. She had never seen the village so quiet and certainly never remembered a working weekday when Jenson had not been at his anvil, swinging his hammer in the easy, skilfully rhythmic way of his craft, surrounded by his cronies who met here for an exchange of greetings and news almost as often as in the ale house. Indeed Mrs Williams swore that more scurrilous gossip had its origins at Jenson’s than ever started around the village pump or wash-house, where the village women gathered. Yet now the smithy’s shop stood empty and deserted, the fire glowing, the blacksmith’s tools discarded. Puzzled, Jessica stood in the street outside, her eyes narrowed against the brilliance of light, the sun beating onto her shoulders through the thin, high-necked blouse that she wore with her riding skirt. The only sign of life nearby was a small boy who stood a few yards from her, a filthy thumb in his mouth, regarding her with solemn eyes.
‘Hello,’ she said, smiling.
He said nothing. His trousers, obviously a bigger brother’s cast-offs, were tied at the waist with string and cut off in a ragged line at the calf. His feet were bare, the dirty toes splayed comfortably in the dust.
‘Where is everyone?’
He shook his head, not removing his thumb.
‘Do you know Mr Jenson?’
A nod.
‘Do you know where he is?’
A small, dirty finger pointed, the thumb was removed for the briefest of moments and then plugged straight back the moment the words were out. ‘Bonner’s Field.’
‘Bonner’s Field?’ She was even more puzzled. The field known as Bonner’s lay behind the church and was sometimes used instead of the green for fairs and other festivities. Had she forgotten the day? She was sure she would have known had a village celebration been taking place. She smiled her thanks to the child and gave him a penny, that disappeared like magic into the voluminous trousers. Then she set off along the path he had indicated, that ran behind the smithy and a row of cottages and cut across a small field to the back of the church and Bonner’s Field.
She saw Charlie and Minna almost as she turned the corner of the building. The girl was clinging urgently to Charlie’s hand and was all but dragging him along, talking volubly and insistently as she went. She was in obvious distress, her gestures and the sound of her voice pleading, though Jessica could not distinguish the words. Taken aback she stood and watched them. Minna tugged at Charlie’s hand again, and they both broke into a run, heading for Bonner’s Field.
More slowly Jessica followed.
The field lay between a row of cottages and the churchyard. Jessica stopped by the cottages, in the shelter of a rickety fence over which scrambled a riot of sweet-smelling honeysuckle. For a moment she could not make sense of what she saw. The whole village seemed to be there – certainly all of the men and perhaps half of the women. A farmcart had been dragged into the centre of the field to serve as a platform, and upon this stood a powerfully built man in worn labourer’s clothes, his hair grizzled, his skin weather-darkened, his eyes the bright pale blue that were to be seen in so many East Anglian faces. Beside him stood a much younger man, a slighter replica of himself and obviously his son. The older man was talking, a hand raised to emphasize his point. In the roar that was greeting what he was saying Jessica lost the words. She stood stock still at the sound, suddenly chill despite the heat. There was a growl of excitement in it, a thread of violence that lifted the hairs at the back of her neck. It was like the snarl of a roused animal, menacing, frightening.
Charlie, towed by Minna, had reached the edge of the crowd and, dropping the girl’s hand, had begun to push his way to the front. Jessica saw men greet him and move aside, letting him through. No one obstructed his way to the cart. The older man on seeing him grinned and extended a hand to help him up. Charlie shook his head and refused the hand. ‘Are you gone clean out of your mind, John Newton?’ His strong voice lifted above the noise of the crowd. A sudden hush fell. Heads turned. A man muttered and was shushed to silence.
The older man let his hand fall to his side, and straightened, his face black with anger as he looked down at Charlie. ‘Iffen you a’n’t with us, Charlie Best, then you’d better leave afore we decide you’re agin us.’
‘Of course I’m with you, man! Tha’ss why I’m tellin’ you you’re a fool! You don’t stand a chance with all this! There’s Specials in Melford. They’ll be here at the first swing of an axe! John, man – all of you! – don’t get yourselves mixed up in this—!’
The muttering of the crowd swelled in anger. Hands reached for Charlie. He fought them off. ‘You’re bein’ used! Outsiders, using you to stir up trouble, tha’ss all—!’
‘Outsiders?’ It was the young man on the cart, the young man that Jessica had realized must be Minna’s brother, as the older man must be her father. ‘Outsiders, you say, Charlie Best? Is it outsiders that’ve been kicked off New Hall land to make room for Hawthorne’s bloody machines?’
‘No!’ roared the crowd.
‘—Is it outsiders that have to feed their little ’uns on pigswill because they can’t afford bread—?’
‘No!’
Charlie was struggling against the hands that were trying to pull him back from the cart. ‘Tommy, stop it! Tha’ss daft, lad – can’t you see—?’ But the hands had him now, and none too gently he was hauled back, cuffed and cursed to the edge of the crowd. As he emerged from the rough handling he staggered, blood upon his face, and went down onto one knee. Jessica started forward, but Minna was there beside him, an arm about his shoulders, a tender hand to his battered face.
And now another man had climbed onto the cart, a tall thin man with a hawk-like face, eyes coal-black and piercing. His appearance stilled the crowd as if by magic, a moment of held breath and expectancy. ‘Good people of Melbury—’ His voice lifted easily, the voice of an orator, ringing and clear. Faces were lifted to him, eyes shone. Jessica took a careful step backwards, and then another. There had been riots in Eye and in Diss, machine-smashing and fire-raising around Ipswich and Colchester. But here? Surely not? Most of the faces she saw here she had known all her life. The younger ones, like Charlie, she had run with as a child—
She forced herself to listen to the man. ‘—They protect themselves with their filthy Corn Laws and deny your children bread—!’
A cloud had covered the sun. The atmosphere was heavy. The stranger’s face shone with sweat, and his shirt was stained dark with it.
‘—They bring in their machines and they deny you a decent
day’s work—’
‘Smash them! Smash them!’
‘They enclose your land and make paupers of you—’
‘Burn them out!’
To Jessica’s horror she saw that Tommy Newton had a lit torch in his hand and was waving it above his head to roars of approval, dark smoke an evil tail behind it. ‘Burn the buggers out!’
The paralysis that had gripped her fell away. She had to stop this. She had to do something. She had to get help.
No one had noticed her, there by the honeysuckle-hung fence. She moved backwards warily, eyes on the crowd, only now and suddenly becoming aware of possible personal danger. Giles Hawthorne was the name being bandied with hatred about the crowd. And she was Giles Hawthorne’s sister. The common knowledge of the bad blood between them might not protect her in this charged atmosphere, with strangers inciting violence. Men were shouting, their faces distorted; another torch had been lit. The man on the cart had an axe in his hand, and Minna’s father held a sledge hammer.
She took another step. Another few yards and she would be at the corner of the fence and out of sight. Bay Dancer was in the barn by the smithy. She had to get to Melford – bring help, before something truly terrible happened—
As she turned to run, Charlie saw her.
She caught his eyes as she turned, saw the surprise on his face, saw him open his mouth to utter the shout that would betray her, and then clamp it shut again. And then she was running, flying over the stony ground, unaware of pain as she stumbled and fell, picking herself up and running again, her riding hat discarded upon the ground behind her. Across the field, behind the cottages, down the alleyway beside the smithy’s. She could hear him behind her, catching her up, heard him now that the danger was two fields away calling her name.
‘Jessie! Jessie, wait!’
She flung herself into the barn. Bay Dancer, great head lifted in expectancy as he heard her step, was tethered at the far end of the building. He whinnied softly when he saw her and pawed the ground. She dragged a bale of hay to him, scrambled upon it, flung herself into the saddle as Charlie, panting, his face fearfully bloodied, came to the door. ‘Jessie—!’ He stopped.
Dismounted she would have stood no chance against his strength. On the big horse she was his match, and more than his match. She wrenched Dancer’s head about to face him. ‘Get out of the way, Charlie.’
‘What are you goin’ to do?’
‘I’m going to Melford. To fetch the Specials.’
He stepped forward, his hands outstretched. ‘Jessie, no! If you bring the police in there’ll be worse trouble than ever.’
‘Worse trouble?’ She stared at him. Excited, Dancer edged sideways, and she fought him round again. ‘Are you mad? Worse than what? Worse than what’s happening out there? Worse than a riot? Worse than arson? Murder perhaps? You heard them – they’re going to New Hall—!’
‘I’ll stop them! Give me a chance to talk to them—’
‘Stop them? Talk to them? Like you tried to just now? Don’t be a fool, Charlie! They’ll kill you!’
‘No! I’ll not believe that! They’re decent people!’
‘Of course they’re decent people! In their right minds! I know that as well as you do. But now? They’re demented. If they have their way they’ll not stop at Giles’ machines, and you know it. They’ll burn New Hall to the ground! Do you think I’m going to stand by and see that happen? Get out of the way, Charlie!’
He stared at her. He stood in the open doorway, and the light was behind him, throwing his face into shadow. He was a stranger. A stranger who looked at her across a gulf that yawned suddenly at their feet, a gulf that divided, that had always divided, their two lives. A stranger who would never understand why she did as she did. She truly hated Giles, but she would not see him smoked out and murdered by a mob. She would not see the splendour of New Hall, filled with her mother’s treasures and her father’s loved possessions, burned. There was an odd, hung moment of silence in the barn, broken only by the distant, ferocious shouts of the mob. Then both moved together. Charlie lunged for the huge door, trying to close it, to prevent her from leaving; and in the same moment she set the big horse at the opening. Charlie threw himself to one side, cursing, and she was through and past him, head down and hair flying, out on the dusty road to Melford.
* * *
They came too late to save the fields, or the machines that were Giles’ pride and joy. Too late to save the barns, or the ricks. The dark pall of smoke that hung over Melbury on that summer’s evening as the forces of law galloped hard along the road to the village told its own story of destruction long before they reached New Hall. Fire had ripped through the dry corn, dancing and blazing, spitting destruction in face of a rising wind. Trees were scorched and hedges destroyed. The machines had been smashed and the barns burned about them. But thanks to the timely arrival of the Specials at least New Hall stood untouched, though surrounded by smoking desolation. Giles, unarmed, had been taken by masked men whilst riding his fields, and no one – no servant, no labourer – had lifted a hand to protect him. He had been held and made to watch the destruction of his crops and of his dreams. He had fought like a demon, and had been hurt for it. He had defied them, and they had used fists and feet, though some, shamefaced as the bloodlust had left them, had crept away and returned to their homes. The remainder scattered as the police rode in, leaving Giles to stand, filthy, his shirt in ribbons, blood upon his handsome face, to watch grim-faced as the roof of the barn collapsed in a shower of sparks.
‘Nothin’ we can do, Sir, I’m afraid,’ the sergeant said.
Giles turned cold eyes upon him. ‘Oh, yes, Sergeant. There’s something you can do. You can make sure that every man jack that had a hand in this finishes behind bars at the next assizes. You can make sure the ringleaders are hanged and the rest transported for life—’
And Jessica, unthanked, turning Dancer’s head from the smoking ruin of New Hall’s prosperity, found herself reflecting ruefully that nothing – absolutely nothing – would ever change Giles Hawthorne.
* * *
Charlie Best married Minna three weeks after her father and brother had sailed in chains in the convict hulks to Australia, and her mother and small brother moved into the lean-to at the back of Home Farm, their own almost derelict cottage forfeit to the implacable Giles. Charlie and Jessica had had very little to say to each other since the day of the riot – the day when all that had been between them had slipped away into the gulf that had yawned between them as they had faced each other in the barn. Before he married Minna, stiffly he had offered to leave Home Farm, an offer which, as stiffly, she had refused. He was a good farmer and an excellent stockman. Why should she want to replace him? The farm, thanks mainly to his efforts, was doing well and in the future could be expected to do better. She would not hear of his leaving.
He nodded, unsmiling. ‘Thank you, Y’re Ladyship.’
She had looked at him for a moment, the hurt hostility dropping from her. ‘You don’t want to go, do you?’
‘No,’ he said, quietly, and then added again, ‘Y’re Ladyship.’
‘Well then,’ She had turned her horse’s head, her eyes straying across the fields to where Old Hall sheep grazed, peaceful, plump and mild-faced. ‘Stay. Stay and help me make this place the most prosperous working estate in West Suffolk.’ Those dreamlike, magic summer days of their loving, so abruptly terminated, had seemed a million years away as she had turned and ridden from him, not looking back, knowing that Minna watched from the cottage door.
* * *
They bought in more stock again that autumn, and the winter that followed was mild and damp with nothing like the bitter weather of the year before. Just after Christmas Sarah took cold again, and this time it settled upon her chest. Worried, Jessica tried to coax her to bed, but the stubborn old lady would not be persuaded. She refused, coughing and wheezing, to give up her ceaseless, pathetic search for her dead husband. Pneumonia struck in Febr
uary, and she died upon the day that Gabriella found the first snowdrops growing by the river. Jessica grieved for the old lady, and it fretted her that she could not let Robert know of her death, but still she had not heard from him, nor had an address where she might contact him. He had dropped from their lives, presumably with intention, as surely as if he himself were dead. Sometimes indeed she found herself wondering if he were, and if she would ever hear, ever know what became of him.
Over the next couple of seasons Old Hall fared well and prospered while across the park Giles doggedly tried to regain lost ground at New Hall. Needing money desperately to stave off the ruin that could have been brought about by the riot he drove a hard bargain over the parkland, that would support Jessica’s sheep but would not help him to recoup his lost crops. To put it to arable use would be to lose the magnificent trees and spoil the setting of the house; and even Giles could not bring himself to be vandal enough to do that. So Jessica acquired the parkland from the river to the lakeside and as far as the ha-ha that divided the lawns of the house from the grassland, and Clara’s peacocks were confined to the garden of New Hall. Jessica saw little of her brother or his wife; there was no love lost between them. Giles had never even thanked her for her effort in bringing the Specials on the day of the riot, and the omission neither surprised nor distressed her. She could guess how galling it must be to him to be in her debt, however slightly. To admit to it by thanks would be impossible for him. She found herself wondering sometimes what kind of life they led, those two, in that great, isolated house, bound to each other in bitterness; childless and unloving; their dreams of grandeur, that was all they had shared, turned to ashes.
The Hawthorne Heritage Page 53