The Price of Beauty

by McCabe, Helen

  “Will we, miss? But not too far. The rain has swollen the river and the path is likely flooded.”

  “Surely not in June.”

  “Near June, miss,” corrected Blanchard. “It gets bad down there in the winter and, begging your pardon, miss, this spring has foretold a poor summer to come.”

  “I didn’t realise you were a herald of the weather, Blanchard,” quipped Lydia but her heart was far from happy. If the Salwarpe was flooded, how would she reach the Mill? It was something she was not prepared for. And soon she must tell the groom about her visit.

  They rode on until they reached the high bank which overshadowed the river valley. Reining in once more, Lydia gasped at the sight that presented itself through the trees.

  The little Salwarpe was higher than she’d ever seen it. Even the wildness of winter had not increased its fullness to such a height. The strong current made it froth and boil and its angry surface seemed to fill the narrow valley, through which it wandered aimlessly in summer.

  “See, miss,” warned Blanchard. “The path is near gone. One slip and we’d be in.”

  “No, Blanchard, it isn’t covered yet. Only in places.” The man looked worried. Lydia hesitated. It would be only fair to tell him. “You see, I intend to go down there. To the house.”

  “To Raven’s Mill, miss?” His mouth remained open.

  “Yes, Blanchard. I am expected.” He was silent and Lydia knew he was trying to decide on a course of action. He was, she supposed, weighing the danger. As a faithful servant of Miss Elizabeth, he was bound to try and stop her.

  Lydia gave him no chance and was already urging Sophie down towards the path. He was following. “Miss, come back, I beg you.” She pretended she was deafened by the fast-flowing river. Besides, it gave her a feeling of exhilaration. It was so near - like a fluid animal, racing along.

  He caught up with her, but was prevented from riding by her side because of the overflowing waters. They continued in single file. Soon, when they rounded the corner, they’d see the bridge which led to the house.

  It was a wild sight. The swollen river had almost filled the arches. Above, the sky was dark enough to presage a storm and, below, the clumps of may blossom were darkening brown. But, in their stead, early dog-roses and moon daisies starred the rough banks making the gorge a place of eerie beauty.

  The house lay in a mist of damp. In the distance she could see the water wheel and salt sheds, behind them the chimneys lying next to the towpath of the canal. She shivered momentarily thinking of her last ride that way. Then she returned to the present.

  She had believed with Caleb as master, the house might have lost its forbidding looks. But she had been mistaken again. As she stared in silence, she was still resolved to approach. If Caleb was gone, then he was gone. At least, she would know.

  She could feel Blanchard’s reproving eyes on her back. And, suddenly, her cheeks felt a smatter of wet.

  “I am going over the bridge, Blanchard,” she said. “Besides, I don’t wish to be caught in the rain.”

  “Over the bridge, miss?” he repeated. She knew she’d won; the groom could not stop her. “But it doesn’t look safe!” he added.

  She ignored his words and trotted on. Sophie’s nimble feet were picking their way through the fringe of swirling river water, when, suddenly, a streak of sizzling lightning split the sky.

  As she controlled her startled mount, Lydia’s apprehension increased. And then it was raining; running down her face, hurling itself at her body in furious stinging slashes as the summer storm increased in force.

  “Hurry, Blanchard,” she shouted, urging the mare towards the wooden span of the bridge. There could be no hesitation now. The rain was forcing her on to seek shelter from whoever remained at Raven’s Mill, and however unwelcoming!

  *

  Caleb had been checking the sheds where the salt was stored in readiness for transport. He was satisfied.

  The salt, high on its wooden pallets, was safe from the river waters which had risen higher than he had ever seen for the time of year. Owing to his grandfather’s final deliberate decision to sell, he was conducting one last service for Strettons. He had no need, except that his mother would have expected it of him - and there was no one else.

  Besides he had the men to think of. Strettons’ sale was to be in entirety, workers and all.

  Once the contracts were signed, the salters’ labour would be the property of the new brinemaster, whose ambition was to restore Upwych to its former great importance, which it had not enjoyed since the abolition of the salt tax some thirty years before.

  Caleb’s decision to leave Raven’s Mill and travel abroad had not been taken lightly. If his grandfather was to relent, he still might stay to claim his inheritance and set himself up, not against the new trends in salt production, but to run Strettons alongside.

  As he gloomily surveyed the stock, he was wondering what else he was fitted to do in the world. If his grandfather had not been a domineering old tyrant, then Caleb could have stood him. But his interfering practices were so unpleasant, it was impossible.

  The thunder cracked above the shed as Caleb finished his task, jammed his hat down on his head and muffling his face against the rain, prepared to run back to the protection of the house...

  Suddenly, he heard shouting above the noise of the storm. The sound was thin and distant, carried downstream by the wind. Squinting against the rain, he could hardly believe his eyes. A rider was trying to cross the bridge! It was madness! He had forbidden his workers even to try, though taking the long way round was a pain. What fool was attempting to cross the river? Running out and along the sopping grass, he sustained a further shock. The rider was a woman! And her companion was trying to follow, shouting all the while.

  “Stop,” shouted Caleb. “Stop! Get off the bridge. You’ll never make it! Stop! Are you mad?” And his breath almost ceased in his body as the horse, terrified by the current and the nearness of the water, reared, unseating its rider, who was gone in a moment.

  Her hat fell off, leaving her bright hair spread for a moment on the surface before it disappeared beneath the flood.

  Without any care for himself, Caleb ran to the edge, threw off his coat and, arching his arms over his head, dived into the Salwarpe after her...

  *

  The waters closed over Lydia’s head as she was dragged down by the river current. Strangely enough her only thought as she went was what her aunt would say!

  Then came the shocking feeling of desperation and helplessness, combined with the pain of water pouring into her ears and mouth, drowning her cries.

  She prayed in her mind, which was crystal clear and, now, no part of her body at all. Past events in her life flashed by and, then, she was struggling to the surface for one brief moment - to see the world above the river, slanting crazily in a sliver of light - before the blue velvet habit, weighing like lead, pulled her once more into that unknown white nothingness.

  She didn’t feel strong arms about her, nor the firm hand under her chin. All she could do was kick and struggle as Caleb Vyne fought to save the woman he loved from drowning like his mother!

  The current carried them both downstream past the Mill and, all the time, Caleb continued to strike for the bank. The frantic Blanchard was left, unable to proceed further, his way blocked by the flooded path. It was then he turned and spurred back towards Upwych for help...

  All Caleb’s boyhood years of familiarity with the Salwarpe were paying off. He knew the course the river ran and where it was least dangerous. Still holding Lydia’s chin but tiring badly, he managed to avoid the deep channels, full of choking weed, and tow them both into the shallows.

  His feet slipped on the slimy bottom as he dragged her towards where the bank should be, making for the only landmark he could recognise, the elm, which had been struck by lightning, several years before.

  He struck out for the branch which was half-submerged, then he was pulling them both out a
nd up into the steaming world where the rain had ceased, and the small, pale roses were nodding their heads on the bushes beside the Salwarpe.

  Caleb’s shoulders rose as he gasped air into his lungs. Then he was staggering with the shock and almost fell back in but, remembering there was no time to lose, collected himself enough to pull Lydia’s sodden body clear of the water below, using the branch to guide them both to safety.

  Soon, he had laid her body across the old tree’s wet roots and was calling her name over and over again as he pressed his hard palms against her chest, rhythmically fighting to expel the river from Lydia’s lungs...

  *

  She could hear a distant voice bringing her out of a twilight world where the sky seemed black and there was a great rushing noise in her ears.

  Her arms and legs wouldn’t do as she bid them; they had given up the struggle and her mind perceived she was dead already. Then, coughing racked her body, the pain breaking her in two. But, after that, she found her desire to return to life was growing.

  Water rushed from her mouth as Caleb turned her on her side. There were weeds on her face and in her hair. He brushed then away as he cradled her body in his arms to warm her, which was the next most important task now she was breathing again.

  Cold though he was, that body contact warmed them both. She couldn’t remember what he said but only that he held her, murmuring into her almost deaf ears, little words of love...

  Blanchard and his helpers, carrying boat hooks to pluck the bodies from the water, were forced to ride and run along the path at the top of the valley and look down on the river from a distance.

  Not a man spoke on the way, but just kept peering down through the thick bushes in the hope of catching sight of either corpse.

  Jemmy Yarwood’s father, who knew the valley well, was sure where the bodies would come up. In the past, he’d been right many times. He made for the same place as Caleb had done earlier, where the river wound over and across the summer shallows.

  When the party caught the glimmer of white, they knew they’d found either the young mistress or master, There were tears running down Blanchard’s face as he and the men carried the makeshift stretchers down the bank, falling and rolling through the deep wet grasses and hollows towards the fallen elm.

  It was difficult to believe their eyes! They knew it was a miracle... Mr Caleb Vyne was alive and seated on the broad branch of the half-submerged tree, which was drooping over the water.

  He was holding Miss Annesley close in a tight embrace, her long, red hair, wrapped around what was left of his white shirt.

  “Come on, lads,” he said, his voice husky from the water. “Bring the stretcher over. She’s alive, thank God. And so am I!” He looked up at the sky as if to reassure himself and, next moment, Caleb was lost amidst the group of his salters, who were congratulating and blessing him, then shaking his hand over and over again!

  *

  Lydia started out of sleep conscious someone was beside her. Opening her eyes, she saw the worried face of her aunt bending over her. It was then she began to cry.

  “Lydia, dear, you are overwrought after your terrible experience. I have thanked God every day that you were spared.” Lydia looked around blankly at the dark red hangings of her four poster as if she didn’t recognise where she was.

  It had been the same since she had been brought back on the stretcher to Annesley. She had raved in a delirium brought on by damage to her lungs. But, today, she looked slightly better and Elizabeth had hopes for her recovery. Dr May had attended every day and there had been a stream of visitors ranging from her aristocratic neighbours to her poorest workers.

  Everyone wished to know how the young lady fared after her miraculous rescue from the flooded river.

  “Aunt, I’m a burden to you,” whispered Lydia, her voice still hoarse from coughing.

  “A burden I can bear, my dear. I am only too happy. And I speak for everyone in Upwych.” Lydia nodded her head and collapsed back against her pillows. She felt light-headed now although she didn’t wish to sleep again.

  It was then Sarah brought in some egg nog and honey and sugar for her cough. She bobbed to Lydia and her eyes were full of tears. Lydia was so thankful she’d not persuaded Sarah to go on the journey as she’d first intended.

  Suddenly, she realised that was the first time a straight thought had come into her head since her rescue. Of it, she could remember little, rather the pain when she was drowning.

  She shivered and Elizabeth Annesley reached over holding a light woollen shawl, finely embroidered at the edges, which she drew about Lydia carefully. Then she sat down beside her.

  Lydia was mortified. Here she was in her bed and her aunt waiting upon her. It should be the other way round.

  “I am a great trouble to you, aren’t I?” she repeated. “And you’re not well. I’ve caused you so much pain through my own stubbornness.”

  “Shh,” cried her aunt. “If I’d lost you ’twould have been the greatest calamity. But you’re home and safe.”

  “I was rescued by Mr Vyne,” said Lydia as if to make sure it was the truth. Suddenly, she was afraid. Perhaps he’d left for Europe and she’d never thanked him.

  “Yes, my dear, and he has my grateful thanks.”

  “Was he injured, aunt?”

  “No, but I believe he’s taken some cold. However, it seems that he’s up and about again.”

  “Then he’s still at Raven’s Mill!” Aunt Elizabeth’s face was severe for a moment and then she relaxed. She was in no mind to scold Liddy ever again, so grateful she was to have her back.

  It had crossed the mind of the elderly Miss Annesley that it was time her niece had some stronger restraining influence in her life to prevent her from such hasty and ill-conceived notions as trying to ford a river in flood!

  “I shouldn’t have done it, aunt,” said Lydia suddenly. “But - I had written a letter to --” she drew in her breath.

  “-- to Mr Vyne,” finished her aunt.

  “How did you know?”

  “Mr Vyne told me.” Lydia’s eyes were wide and her aunt thought how lovely she looked at that moment. “It seems that he did not receive your letter in time to prevent you visiting him.”

  “But I sent it in good time!” Lydia clapped a hand to her mouth.

  “Yes, Lydia, but it did not reach him.” There was the hint of a smile about her aunt’s lips. “It seems that Lucas Stretton had commanded all mail to be brought to him and, seeing your letter from Caleb, ordered it to be destroyed!”

  “But that is monstrous!” cried Lydia.

  “No more than many other wrongs that have been wreaked on Mr Vyne,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “It is only a mercy that Caleb was still at Raven’s Mill on account of the flooding. Otherwise, my Liddy might not have been here now.”

  “And is Mr Vyne still leaving?” Lydia hoped her tone would not give her away. She was remembering herself waking from black nothingness to the sound of his voice, whispering sweetness.

  “I think that may depend on certain matters over which he has no control,” was her aunt’s surprising reply. She looked keenly at Lydia.

  “What matters?” She saw her aunt frown. Suddenly, Lydia sat up from amongst the pillows. “I’m sorry, Aunt Elizabeth but - Mr Vyne’s well-being is a matter of great interest to me - given that he was my saviour!”

  “He will be glad to hear that, Liddy, and --” her aunt rose from the bedside chair and twitched her skirts about her, “-- you may tell him so yourself!”

  “Tell him so?” repeated Lydia.

  “My dear,” replied her aunt, looking down. “Mr Vyne has been seated in the drawing-room each day since you’ve been sick. It seems that your health is of great concern to him too.”

  “Is he out there still?” cried Lydia, her heartbeat quickening.

  “Still, indeed,” her aunt answered drily.

  “And - may I see him?”

  “Yes. And, although I consider it entirely imprope
r, you may see him alone.” Elizabeth’s Annesley’s eyes were twinkling. By the look on her niece’s face, Mr Caleb Vyne was the kind of medicine Lydia needed to make a full recovery!

  “Thank you, aunt!” She was longing to see him and speak with him!

  Lydia caught her breath as Caleb walked in, his dark tail coat and elegant woollen breeches showing off his athletic figure.

  The fine bone structure and the dark crop of strong curly hair that she had first admired were still evident to her, but now there was so much more.

  In his eyes, she saw concern tempered with eagerness, and in his expression a graveness in keeping with her vulnerable position. Her aunt’s words to Brodrick Fortey, Salt men are gentlemen, were fresh in her mind as he bowed courteously.

  “Please sit down, Mr Vyne,” she said, indicating the chair beside her. Those hard lips, which she had fancied had scolded her too much, curved into a smile of relief.

  “Miss Annesley, it’s so good to see you!” Caleb’s eyes searched her face for any reciprocal sign of fondness. “Are you feeling much better now?”

  “Much, thank you, Mr Vyne.” Lydia was conscious of his eyes upon her face and that she was wearing only her night attire, She blushed.

  “I am so glad to see you,” he repeated.

  “And I, you.”

  “Your aunt has given me leave to talk with you for a while,” he added. “And I’m grateful for it.”

  “I heard you had taken cold, Mr Vyne?” asked Lydia solicitously.

  “Only a brief spell,” he replied. “I have other more pressing matters than my own health.”

  “Are there such?” she asked, wishing to add his health was of great concern to her.

  “My grandfather was taken seriously ill three days ago.” Her heart lurched.

  “Then you will be staying at Raven’s Mill?”

  “I will.”

  “Ah,” Lydia lay back against the pillows. It was what she’d needed to hear. She was not to lose him yet. Then she was longing to say what was in her heart.

  “Am I tiring you?” he asked anxiously.

  “Oh, no, Caleb.” Her familiar use of his Christian name was a signal of her feelings. Her every nerve was straining for him to act. If he would only take her hand!