Bitter Inheritance

by Ann Cliff

  What if Mrs Scott were right, and a paying guest could solve the farm’s cash crisis? Sally lit a lamp and wandered round the familiar rooms, seeing them in a new way, as a visitor might. The house was old, with low-beamed ceilings and panelling on the walls. Would city folks find it attractive? Or just shabby and old-fashioned? The parlour was a pleasant retreat, lined with bookshelves and with a large stone fireplace. Roses peeped in through the open window. Sally had spent little time in the parlour since her father died.

  There was an old-fashioned, panelled dining-room with the dining-table that Aunt Bertha coveted. Her father’s oak desk took up much of one wall. The kitchen was large, with a big cooking range, a separate pantry and dairy and a row of geraniums on the broad stone windowsill. A paying guest could eat in the dining-room. In fact, it could also be used as a guest’s sitting-room. And upstairs the big main bedroom stood empty. She would need to clear the wardrobe of her father’s things, give them to the church bazaar, perhaps. The curtains could be washed and the carpet needed attention. The sheets should smell of lavender and tomorrow, Sally decided, she would gather lavender flowers for the linen press and pick some roses for the vases.

  Sally had lived in this old house all her life and never really looked at it objectively before. She had the feeling that women like Aunt Bertha might turn up their noses at her home. But some people might like the peace and simple comfort of Badger’s Gill. If Mrs Scott had her way, Sally was about to find out.

  FIVE

  George Dawson considered himself a hardened old farmer, but there was a tear in his eye as he watched a sad little procession cross the green on Thursday morning. Under a grey and cloudy sky, Sally was leading her little flock to be loaded into the cart to go to market.

  The horse was standing ready yoked and there was no time to lose. Sally sprinkled a little grain from the bucket and the Motley Flock ran easily up the ramp and into the cart. George threw a net over them and tied it down, hardly daring to look at Sally. She gave a last pat to the curly heads and turned away. ‘Try to find out who buys them, George—’ Sally choked, and stopped.

  ‘Good young ewes with lambs at foot, should fetch a good price today,’ the farmer said gruffly, pretending that this was a normal market day.

  Martha came out, wiping her hands on her apron and put a hand on Sally’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go and turn out yon parlour of yours. I’ve not much to do today, myself.’

  The Motley Flock, quite composed, peered out of the cart. George moved off down the road and they looked surprised that Sally was not going with them. As he clopped down to Ripon, George rehearsed his list of things to do. Top of the list was a pig. They really needed a pig to eat scraps and unsaleable vegetables. A little sow would be ideal.

  The stock market was full today, George found, and he had to queue to unload the sheep into a pen. Several auctioneers were moving round the pens and he soon realized that the pigs were nearly all sold. Hurrying over to the pig lines, he spotted a likely sow, ready to have a litter soon. He waited for the pen to be sold and managed to buy it for a good price. Then he saw a couple of neighbours and stopped for a chat. He arranged to sell a load of turnips and some carrots, to be delivered next week. All this took some time and the sale was nearly over. To his dismay, when George got back to the sheep lines, Sally’s flock was gone. ‘Who bought ’em?’ He clutched at the auctioneer’s sleeve. Sally wanted to know where they went!

  ‘Dunno. Don sold them, not me. Went to a chap from the High Side. Don’t worry, your cash is safe in the office.’

  The money was important of course and George collected it immediately. But he regretted not watching the sale. He’d have to keep asking every week at the market, until he could find out where they’d gone.

  The Roman soldier was in Ripon that day and had taken a stroll through the sheep pens. He spotted the Motley Flock immediately, even though they had now lost their fleeces. He reached over and tickled the friendly inquisitive one under the chin, just to make sure. The whole group moved towards him. Normal sheep didn’t behave like that.

  Marcus had not been able to forget the girl on Camp Hill. He remembered her shawl blowing in the wind, her expressive blue eyes and her slim figure. Don’t be too romantic, he told himself, just because you liked poetry at school! You didn’t often meet anyone like Bo-Peep. She spoke politely even though she looked like a homeless waif. And he liked the way she’d handled her predicament, caught with strays on private land and standing up to him. Lonely himself, Marcus thought he’d recognized a certain loneliness in the girl.

  The auctioneer came over. ‘Buying today, sir? That lot’s a bit small for the likes of you!’

  Why had she sold the sheep? Perhaps they’d escaped once too often. But he might be able to find out more about the girl. Pride had prevented him from asking anyone local who she might be. But then he remembered the way she’d spoken to them, rubbed their heads … that girl loved her sheep. If she had to sell, that must mean she was in trouble. Marcus looked at the sheep thoughtfully. There were rather too many for what he had in mind, but they’d be better left together, in their group. A butcher hovered, appraising the flock. Marcus could see that he was weighing them mentally; the ewes were fat, but the lambs were too small. Marcus raised a finger, caught the seller’s eye and the sheep were his.

  Just then Marcus spotted a livestock carrier in the crowd. ‘Here Tom, take these up to Mrs Jameson’s, at Dallagill, will you? Tell her they’re mine – she’ll understand. They can go in the orchard for today.’

  ‘Aye, that I will. If I can get going right now there’ll be time for another load afore night. Give us a hand, boss.’ The sheep were decanted, slightly puzzled but not at all dismayed, into Tom’s cart and whisked off down the road.

  The day before Marcus had called on Mrs Jameson and found her in a right pickle, as she told him. ‘Grass is growing and nowt to eat it. And I’m too lame to go and buy some stock and too old to chase round ’em, in any case. But I don’t want to give up, not yet!’ Dan Jameson had been their best stockman and his wife had worked in their house when Marcus was a boy. They’d always lived in this cottage, with a few fields at the back, next to the chapel. Marcus was fond of them and had tried to look after Mrs Jameson since her husband had died.

  ‘I’ll put a few sheep on, they might be company for you,’ Marcus had promised before he left. He sometimes wished he didn’t have the gift of letting people get under his skin. It was downright uncomfortable at times. The flock would eat the grass for the widow, provided they didn’t escape. He would tell her to get a bucket of grain; that seemed to be the secret.

  When he did call to see her, Mrs Jameson was indignant. ‘This lot’s been hand reared! They’re somebody’s pets! I’ll bet they’ve all got names! Who did you steal ’em off, you wicked boy?’ She patted Lavinia lovingly. The flock had made itself at home from the start and settled down to eat the widow’s grass as a serious business. They looked as though butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs J. But I’d rather like to find out.’

  Sally mourned the loss of her sheep, but she was too busy to sit down and cry. She trotted up to the Crown with the rent on the due day and Sol seemed rather disappointed.

  ‘Oh, so you found it in the end.’ He didn’t offer any more threats and Sally only waited for the receipt before leaving as quickly as she could.

  Mrs Scott called in to say that the advertisement for a paying guest had been placed. ‘But don’t hold your breath, it’s only a small one. It may take a while to find the right person.’

  Rather too soon for Sally, a woman drove up in a trap the week after the advert went in and asked to see ‘the rooms’. She pulled up with a flourish and threw the reins imperiously to Sally, evidently thinking she was a servant.

  ‘What rooms? Oh, you mean the guest rooms.’ Sally stammered a little and blushed. She was on her way to see Martha, but she turned back and opened the front door, which creaked a littl
e. They didn’t use front doors very often at Thorpe.

  Sally herself thought that the old house looked pleasant if a little faded, smelling mainly of the flowers she’d picked that morning. It was always better in summer, after the traces of winter damp had gone. This was certainly the best time of year to start the new business. But she felt nervous under this woman’s hard stare. ‘We’re not ready for visitors yet, of course. In a few weeks, perhaps …’

  The woman’s stony face soured a little more. ‘Obviously not!’ she sniffed. She drew a white-gloved finger across the dressing table and examined it critically. ‘Dust! Not very professional, are you?’ Her purple bosom swelled.

  Sally stood straighter. ‘As I said, we’re not yet prepared,’ she said quietly.

  The woman sniffed again. ‘I am looking for a temporary home for a relation of mine. She is perfectly respectable of course, just a little – strange. Especially at the time of the full moon.’ She watched Sally’s face for a reaction.

  Not over my dead body, Sally was thinking. It’s not your relation that worries me, it’s you, madam. Smoothing down her curls, Sally said blandly, ‘Surely the – lady will need professional care?’

  ‘Not in the country, she won’t. It can hardly matter how anyone behaves out here! With only the villagers and the farm animals. A few screams will no doubt go unnoticed up here!’ She looked around at the uncouth farmyard.

  ‘I hardly think you understand country life, madam, if that is what you believe. People here are a community and take a great interest in each other’s affairs. Strange behaviour would probably be much more noticeable here than it would in a town.’

  And I hope that puts you right off me and the farm, Sally added silently.

  The long purple dress trailed from room to room, following Sally, critical at every step. But at the end Mrs Smythe decided that Badger’s Gill would do. ‘The doctor told me that country air and fresh food might improve her a little. I will bring my relation here next week, for six weeks in the first instance.’

  Sally’s eyes widened when the rate of pay was mentioned. A few shillings a week would help, but it was not much after the cost of food was deducted. And when Sally heard that Mrs Smythe lived in Ripon and would inspect the house every week, she made up her mind. ‘I am afraid it will not be possible.’ And that was that.

  ‘Of course you did the right thing. You can get much more money than that!’ Mrs Scott advised Sally later in the day.

  With a melancholy whistle the train chugged into a gloomy tunnel and Emma felt it was somehow symbolic of the way her life was going. The girl leaned her aching head on the back of the seat. Sheffield was behind her and the future ahead was dark. She was determined about one thing: they would not make her cry. Years of living in the Bellamy household had made her quiet and withdrawn. She had learned not to cry, ever, even when she was whipped. The whippings had started when she first went to live with the Bellamys at the age of twelve. It had been hard not to cry, then.

  There was nothing that strangers could do to affect her; Emma felt frozen, incapable of emotion. That was the best way to be.

  ‘We’re going under the Pennines!’ The gentleman in a waistcoat beamed. ‘A wonderful achievement, this tunnel.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Emma was polite, but nothing more. She went back to wondering what her new life was going to be like, and in particular about Miss Mason. Mrs Bellamy had harped on the subject of Miss Mason all the time that Emma’s trunk was being packed. This formidable lady lived far off in the Dales and she was prepared to take Emma as a paying guest. From the Bellamy’s point of view, the older and grimmer Miss Mason was, the better. Certainly, as Mrs Bellamy pointed out to her husband, S. Mason (Miss) wrote a good hand and must have had some education. Several letters had been exchanged before the transaction was complete. Miss Mason had assured them that there was no man in the house; they pictured her as old, soured by living alone, prim and proper and most critical of fallen women. Just the thing to put the girl in her place and to remind her of her folly, every day.

  ‘You will mind your manners and only speak when you are spoken to. Miss Mason will not wish for idle conversation!’

  What is she, a nun? Emma wondered. But a silent old lady would be a distinct improvement on her present company. Emma had tried, but it was hard to love her guardians. She realized that from their point of view she was a great disappointment and a burden to them. They told her so, very often. Would Miss Mason be told to whip her? It might be in the Rules.

  The Bellamys had stopped her from packing anything valuable, ‘in case it is stolen’. With regret, Emma had left behind her mother’s jewellery box and her father’s gold watch. How dangerous were these wild villagers going to be? She had little to remind her of her parents and of those far-off days when she had a family and they were happy together. Emma knew that she was being sent to Thorpe to get her out of the way, so that no breath of scandal would touch her respectable relations. She would have the baby at this place called Badger’s Gill, among strangers and with no one to support her. Obviously, it was also meant to be a form of punishment and a time for repentance. ‘The child will be sent for adoption immediately,’ her aunt had said with distaste. ‘And in due course I suppose you will have to resume your duties in this house, with a solemn undertaking that this will never happen again.’

  The baby was still unreal to Emma, a horrible accident, the result of torture. Sometimes she was tempted to tell them the truth. It was so unfair to be branded a slut. But there was a strong possibility that they wouldn’t believe her. Or if they did, they might make her marry that monster. Silence was the best course and Emma stuck to it.

  It looked as though rain was about to come in from the west and the clouds were so low on the Pennines that you could almost touch them. Industrial Yorkshire was not very picturesque, Emma decided as the train went north, first to Leeds, and then she changed for a train to Harrogate. She was glad that her trunk had been sent on ahead and she had only a light bag to carry. At Harrogate she had a drink of water and found the train to Ripon.

  The mill chimneys had disappeared and the dark brooding hills were left behind. Here the countryside was much more attractive, with a patchwork of fields and woods, little red-roofed villages and even, here and there, a ray of sunshine. There were people and horses working in the fields.

  All too soon they steamed into Ripon station. This was the tricky part of the journey. The Thorpe carrier had been told to look out for her, but would he find her? Emma stood forlornly outside the station, feeling very alone. The Bellamys had at least been familiar, but here she was among strangers.

  ‘Miss Wakefield? Let me take your bag! We leave for Thorpe in ten minutes.’ A burly man in a bowler hat and side whiskers beamed at her and led her round the corner to where a wagonette with two horses stood by the side of the road.

  Emma climbed up into the vehicle and sat down gingerly. Two women broke off their conversation and looked round at her. ‘Looks like rain, doesn’t it? Hope we don’t get wet! Are you going to Thorpe with us?’

  Emma said she was and turned away to look at the street.

  ‘Travelled far, have you, dear?’ The woman with baskets looked hard at Emma.

  ‘From Sheffield.’

  ‘Ooh, that’s a long way! Never been there myself. You’ll be staying a while at Thorpe, maybe? Who’re you staying with, then?’ They looked Emma up and down and she shrank in her seat. The baby was showing, but she’d made herself some loose dresses and was wearing a concealing long coat.

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ Emma stammered. She wasn’t going to tell them everything, although they’d be bound to find out before long. The women rolled their eyes at each other, but they left her alone.

  Rain still threatened but they got to Thorpe before it arrived, jogging through some pretty countryside, climbing all the time out of the plain, heading towards the purple line of moors.

  Thorpe, when eventually reached, was built of stone: t
he houses, the walls and the barns were all stone, some a sunny yellowish colour and others dark grey and rather forbidding. Houses and cottages were grouped round a village green, which had a rather large pond. Fields rose steeply at the backs of the houses beyond the green at one side and the street wound uphill and narrowed, presumably to more houses and perhaps a church.

  ‘Put me down on the green, please,’ Emma asked firmly. And when the horses jogged off, she felt another wave of loneliness. There was no one about, nothing on the street except some ducks heading for the pond. Badger’s Gill was supposed to be near the pond, so Emma followed the ducks.

  The house was easy to find, standing foursquare to the street with a tiny metal badger on the garden gate. Emma went up the path slowly and forced herself to knock on the big front door. Nothing happened. The loud knock sounded hollow, as though the place was empty. She timidly pushed open the door and saw her trunk standing in the hall. This was the right place, then. Where was Miss Mason? There was a clatter of hooves and the creak of a cart, somewhere out of sight. Emma went round the house and saw a procession coming into the farmyard: country people doing farm work. ‘It’s going to rain, we did well to get the last load!’ An older woman smiled at a young red-headed girl, who was riding on top of a load of hay. A girl on a load of hay!

  ‘Just time to stack it in the barn before milking time.’ The two men with them agreed and the horse was led into the stone barn. Emma could hear jokes and laughter as the workers unloaded the hay. Why were they so cheerful? Especially when the drizzle started. Why would they be pleased to see rain?

  After a few minutes, Emma thought she should go to ask for Miss Mason. Peeping round the barn door she was immediately spotted by the young woman, who came towards her with a wide smile. ‘Emma Jane Wakefield? So you’ve got here at last. Was it a good journey? If you can wait a few minutes, I’ll make you a cup of tea.’