The Lonely Furrow

by Norah Lofts

  Upon such morbid meditations the presence of the girl—whom she had always liked rather better than her grand-nieces—broke like a ray of sunshine at the end of a dismal day. Like a breath of fresh air which became actuality for Joanna, realising that she must live, eat, sleep in this room, made up the fire, wrapped an extra blanket over the old body and flung open the window. The pure clean air—mild for the time of year and not a good omen—streamed in and the room freshened. Then, because she was so happy herself—happy even to have escaped the noise and bustle of the hall—Joanna set herself to make Lady Agnes comfortable, if not happy.

  ‘If you could hold on to me… Put your arms round my neck… I could get you on to this stool and fluff up your bed.’

  Somewhat cautiously, Lady Agnes embarked upon this operation. Over the last two years she had observed, idly, how differently girls developed. Maude had put on flesh, become curved but remained short of stature. Beatrice would probably go the same way; this girl, mature-looking when she arrived two years ago, had grown upwards, a full two inches, and thinned out in the process, taking on a look of frailty which was, Lady Agnes learned, completely deceptive. Strong as steel.

  ‘Just let yourself go. I’ve lifted heavier weights than you.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the farm.’

  ‘I understood that you came from Spain.’

  ‘My mother did.’ With those words began the story, the series of stories, which afforded the invalid more entertainment than she had had for a long time. The manner of life depicted was outside her experience, almost beyond the reach of her imagination, but the girl had the knack of description and a gift of mimicry. The place, the people all came to life. Except Henry, though it was of him that Joanna spoke most often. He remained an enigma.

  ‘Why did he not give you a ring when you became betrothed. It would have saved a deal of bother.’

  ‘It would have been an expense. And he thought me too young. I don’t suppose the idea that somebody else might not think me too young ever once occurred to him. Henry is very… single-minded.’ It was not an adequate word but she could think of no other.

  Sir Godfrey’s name had inevitably been mentioned and Lady Agnes could remember him; very handsome, extremely brave, but so single-minded as to be almost simple. So devoted to his wife—when at last he had decided upon marriage—that he’d missed some good opportunities of pleasing ladies who could, by influence, have advanced his career; so no sinecures had come his way and he’d died poor; his son ploughed his own acres!

  It was all fascinating and Lady Agnes was insatiable. Tell me more about… What happened after that?

  They were well-fed, well-supplied with firewood. That will was still to be made! Much of the service was provided by young squires because Christmas turned everything topsy-turvy. Maude and Beatrice made their morning visits as usual. Nothing to say for themselves, anxious only to get away. Lady Agnes’ keen eye did, however, presently perceive a slight change, an improvement in Maude. She looked less sallow. Possibly applied colour or a reflection of the hue of her latest new dress which was rose pink.

  One day, two, three days after Christmas, when Joanna had finished the dramatic story of how Griselda had found that hoard of jewels, the old woman said, ‘You must see mine, my dear. Not that I can show you a ruby an inch wide.’ She had a feeling that upon this subject the girl had tended to exaggerate, but what matter? There was drama in the tale of gems lying hidden, being used as playthings and then being discovered and tumbled on a kitchen table.

  She handed Joanna a key. ‘It opens the small compartment in my clothes chest,’ she said. ‘Inside there is a box; bring it to me.’

  Lady Agnes’s jewels were well enough but set in the English style, flat into the gold, so that some light and sparkle was lost. Now it was her turn to reminisce; wedding gifts, birthday gifts; the pendant her husband had given her when her first and only child had been born; a boy, dead of the whoop before he was two. There was something sad about this recountal of glad days, grievous days, the visible evidence of things outlasting their owners. It was difficult to look so far ahead and see herself, old and ailing. Henry, too… No, such an unthinkable thought must be put away.

  Lady Agnes, out of the less important items at the bottom of the box, selected a ring. It had no sentimental associations for her for she had won it from another lady at a tournament—each had wagered an ornament upon the outcome and her knight had won. It was a ring, a plain gold band with a cluster of small garnets set together, rather like a squashed raspberry. If she remembered rightly, she’d worn it only once; at the banquet which followed the tournament, just to show that she had won it, being a better judge of a man and a horse.

  ‘I want you to have this,’ she said, holding the ring towards Joanna, who made no move to take it but backed away and said, ‘No. It is kind of you. But I could never wear it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Am I not in disgrace enough already? If Lady Grey thought that I had taken advantage, turned a penance to pleasure, the very worst might happen. She could send me back and then the bargain… the agreement between Henry and me would fall to the ground. I must stay here another year and a half. Until I am fifteen. Henry honoured his part, I must honour mine.’

  Still fingering the ring, Lady Agnes said, ‘It would be a guard against unwanted suitors.’

  Joanna said, with a touch of savagery in her voice, ‘There will be no need. I know now. Lady Grey flung at me the charge of being deceitful, of having encouraged Lord Shefton. That is untrue. She placed me by him at table; she told me that it was discourteous to refuse a choice tit-bit, offered by one’s neighbour; or to refuse to stand up and dance when invited. It was at her bidding that I behaved in a manner she now chooses to denounce. I am wiser now and need no ring as guard. But it was a kind thought.’

  ‘Put them back, then,’ Lady Agnes said. She retained the squashed raspberry ring, pushing it, with some difficulty, on to her little finger—the only one it now fitted. Strange to think that on an evening, long ago, she had shown it off, not only as a win from a wager but as a ring far too big, her fingers being more slender than those of its former owner. A double triumph.

  Lord Shefton was a self-indulgent old hedonist but he had been properly reared. Never, never lick a wound in public. As Lady Grey had expected, the task of breaking the unpleasant news had been left to her and she, fearing some display of displeasure, was relieved by his apparently calm acceptance of it.

  ‘You are in no way to blame, Lady Grey,’ he said gallantly. ‘The fault, if any, lies with His Grace of Bywater who was, to say the least, negligent.’

  Under the surface, venom seethed. By withholding a vital piece of information, the negligent fellow had made Lord Shefton look a fool and nobody did that with impunity. Let this Christmas season get over and the official wheels turning again and the Bishop of Bywater’s affairs would be looked at by an eye eager to find a fault. It would be found. For just as all men had a price, all men had a vulnerable point.

  Lady Grey was much impressed by his lordship’s manner and also by the fact that the rotten teeth had been removed. His breath was no longer offensive and when he smiled some new teeth, somewhat irregular but clean and white and sound, could be seen.

  It had been a painful, tedious, expensive and rather hit-or-miss operation but Lord Shefton had faced it bravely. There was a tooth puller in the Strand who specialised in the extraction, and replacement of teeth—mainly for vain, ageing women. Well-fortified by wine and some pain-killing potion, Lord Shefton had submitted to the crude but swift surgery while a number of boys, each willing to sacrifice a tooth or even two, for sixpence each, sat waiting. Pluck out the old rotten one, dab the socket well with salt; take the young tooth and press it in firmly. If it took root, well and good; if not it was simply unfortunate. It was not an operation that could be repeated. Lord Shefton, with six seemingly well-rooted, had had above average good luck.

  Nothing
, of course, could restore his youth but, as she observed the new teeth and was grateful for his courtesy in not blaming her, there hung at the back of Lady Grey’s mind the details of that marriage settlement.

  She still wished her daughters to make good and happy marriages. And with Joanna safely out of the way, she had dared to hope that perhaps Sir Gervase Orford, another guest for Christmas, might look at Maude with a favourable eye. He was personable, well-connected and, from the point of view of money, just right; not rich enough to despise Maude’s dowry, not poor enough to covet it.

  She was forestalled. Lord Shefton’s pride recovered, like an angry snake, from the blow which had been painful but not mortal. He could still make it seem as though the quarry he hunted, and which had escaped him, was not indeed what he wanted, and the easiest way to do that was to pay attention to Maude. Meek and submissive, she was not to his taste, not even pretty, but she was young. And of late there had been a dearth of young virgins—either girls were growing more wilful or parents more indulgent. He had, before settling on Joanna Serriff, had a set-back or two. Now, with the marriage settlement properly drawn up in his baggage and the ring in his pouch, he had, he realised, not too much time to spare. Time enough, however, to make a defeat look like a victory. Let everybody, except Sir Barnabas and his lady, think that he had changed his mind; it only meant the scribbling out of the name Joanna Serriff and the substitution of Maude Grey.

  True to her principles Lady Grey said, ‘Maude should be consulted.’ And Maude, crushed down, rebuked, scolded, smacked, even beaten on occasion, gave the correct answer—‘As you wish, Mother.’

  ‘No, Maude, this is the decision of a lifetime. You must take it.’

  Free! Away from here. Countess of Shefton; taking—if they ever met after the wedding, precedence over her mother.

  ‘Then I agree,’ Maude said. ‘When it was Joanna, I wished myself in her shoes.’

  ‘Forget that,’ Lady Grey said, commanding her daughter for almost the last time. ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Yes. I am sure.’

  The ring, Lord Shefton admitted to himself, was not quite right. Out of his hoard he had chosen a ring for another finger, the finger of a girl whose eyes varied; emerald, sapphire, crystal. So he had brought an aquamarine. Had he foreseen what would happen he would have chosen something of warmer shade; a topaz, or one of the rare flawed yellow stones rightly called Cat’s Eye. He had, of course, jewels of greater worth, the Shefton diamonds were quite famous, but a betrothal ring should not be ostentatious.

  Maude displayed her aquamarine and told her news with a blush and show of animation which transformed her into something approaching prettiness. Lady Agnes wished her happiness with a heartiness which concealed some doubts. However, she reflected, there would be compensations; escape from her mother’s domination, a grand title—and it could not be for long.

  Joanna embraced the girl whom she had always thought of as “poor Maude”, and of whom she was mildly fond, and said, ‘If you are happy, Maude, I am pleased for you.’

  Maude said, ‘I could jump over the moon for joy.’

  Beatrice, simpering, said, ‘It will be my turn next. These things always go in threes.’

  ‘And when is the wedding to be?’ Lady Agnes asked.

  ‘They are discussing it now. Sometime before Lent.’

  It was possible to celebrate a wedding in Lent but it was not regarded as an auspicious choice.

  Impatient, now, Lord Shefton said, ‘Would Candlemas Day be too soon?’

  Lady Grey could understand impatience. He was old. And now that the decision had been taken by Maude herself, no pressure brought to bear—had she not practically invited the girl to refuse?—it would be a thousand pities if death intervened between Maude and the title, that marriage settlement. Certain observations of rites were supposed to precede a wedding but when one had a household chaplain… There would be no difficulty there! Aloud she began to muse about the weather. These few exceptionally mild days—including Christmas Day itself—spoke of a hard winter still to come. Roads impassable…snow probably and then, as it melted, the slush and mire. And if Lord Shefton had welcomed the idea of a short betrothal, how much more would he—and everybody—welcome Twelfth Night? Without actually seeming to do so—and there lay the secret of her power—she had it all arranged. A little less food for a few days and she had enough provisions for a splendid wedding feast. And Maude had another gown, as yet unworn. Guests were already here—neighbours within easy distance could be invited. Family ties were frail. Stordford had never been a family place; Lady Grey’s relatives were too modest and Sir Barnabas’s too grand.

  Twelfth Night it would be.

  Above stairs, Lady Agnes had fallen into a strange, unusually quiet mood. It had come upon her with the reflection that Maude’s marriage, happy or otherwise, could not last long. She and Lord Shefton were near contemporaries and that thought struck home. For the last few days, her bed made so comfortable, her mind distracted by Joanna’s tales, she had felt better, lively. Now melancholy set in. It was strengthened by the thought that she must give Maude a wedding present. And how to decide about that? It must be something, out of that locked box, good enough to pass muster and yet not good enough to be wasted because ignored, amongst those that Maude, Countess of Shefton, would for a short time own and wear. A short time…

  ‘I want Father Gilbert—the chaplain,’ she said suddenly, just as Joanna was beginning to light the candles. Aware that the chaplain had come to the sick-room on Christmas morning, Joanna said, ‘Are you feeling worse?’

  ‘I’m as well as I shall ever be! And in my right mind.’ There was a touch of tetchiness. ‘This is business. Tell him to bring pen and parchment and two copying clerks. Then stay out of the room but within call.’

  On her withered yet knuckly fingers Lady Agnes checked over the details of the will, about which she had been brooding all day. First, a generous bequest, fifty pounds, to the chaplain himself—that would ensure that the document was not mislaid or overlooked. One had to be wily about such things. Fifty pounds for a hundred Masses to be said for her soul; fifty for the poor—to be administered at Father Gilbert’s discretion. Maude would want for nothing and in any case would have received a wedding present; possibly the pearls. To Beatrice a hundred pounds to be paid when she married or reached the age of eighteen. Over Barnabas and Gertrude she hesitated. Certainly they had housed and fed her but they could not be said to have been very attentive since she had been stuck away here; hurried little visits. Fifty pounds a-piece. Oh, and Roger, of course, must not be forgotten, though she remembered him only somewhat dimly; he’d been from home for so long. Still, men needed property and property needed a man to see to it, as she had learned, employing middlemen. So, to Roger—my nephew, my manor of Foxborough… And that also would ensure that this will was executed correctly. But she owned another, bigger manor, nearer London and now almost entirely devoted to supplying the rapidly growing city with fresh, immediately consumable food. She had not seen it since her fall had disabled her but to judge from the returns it was prosperous, though the house—actually the house to which she had gone as a bride, which she and her husband had occupied whenever business or pleasure had drawn them towards London—was now, according to her agent, all chopped about and let out to working people who toiled on the land or trudged into the city to earn a wage. ‘My manor of Finchley,’ Lady Agnes said, ‘and everything else of which I die possessed…’

  Joanna had spent the time sitting at the head of the stairs, hugging her secret happiness and oblivious to the sound of voices and laughter coming up from the hall below. She felt the wind change. Real winter on the way and, if the old beliefs were anything to go by, it would be a severe one. She remembered one of Tom Robinson’s rhymes.

  If the ice in November’ll bear a duck,

  There’s nothing to come but mud and muck.

  Warm weather at the year’s back end

  Snow drifts late
r on do send.

  The chaplain and the clerks eventually emerged, all looking pleased. He had his legacy; and for witnessing the signature the clerks would each receive two shillings. Joanna went back into the room and made up the fire.

  ‘Now tell me a story,’ Lady Agnes demanded. ‘A merry one if possible.’

  Well, if not actually merry, there was a comic side to the story of Young Richard stealing from market stalls and being thoroughly beaten by everybody who could get in a blow.

  ‘But he was Henry’s nephew, you see, and was a Tallboys; so Henry thought he was responsible and offered to pay. Everybody on the market claimed to have been robbed, if not that day, last week, a month ago. And that was most unfair; Richard certainly hadn’t stolen pots or pans. Henry hadn’t enough money, so he sold Richard’s pony and cleared the family name. That was fair; but it started some talk about Henry being unkind and the poor boy stealing because he was hungry. That was a black lie. Much good it did him, though!’ Her eyes flashed green malice and she laughed, showing those sharp teeth. ‘He was sent to school at Eton, where he says he is half-starved and frequently flogged. He may be lying again but I hope with all my heart it is true!’

  Now that the will was made the old woman felt better; it had been the prospect of parting with her belongings which had depressed her. Once more she was easily entertained.

  ‘You bear him a grudge. Did he steal from you?’

  ‘That would have puzzled him! No, he tried to be friends. Once he tried to give me a string of blue beads. I told him to go and hang himself with it!’

  ‘You are pretty, my dear, but when you are spiteful your face changes. You look like a wolf.’