The Straw Halter

by Joan M. Moules

  Since his wife’s death, three years before, Richard had not been celibate, but now the time had come to take himself a new wife. He needed someone to be hostess at the dinners, someone by his side officially.

  Lily was twenty years younger than he was and she came from good stock. The Aston-Jenkins were landowners of substance and well thought of. Although not a great beauty, Lily had style and panache. He did not love her as he had loved his wife but she and her family had accepted him and he did not doubt that they would have a happy life together.

  Much later that night, in his lonely bed, he awoke from a dream about the farmer’s wife, the beautiful Betsy Forrester he had met for the first time earlier in the day. As he turned towards her she melted into the softness of the sheets and the space beside him was empty. He groaned aloud.

  The daily round back at the farm occupied a lot of Betsy’s time, yet still she thought about that glimpse of the man whom she believed to be her father. It was all very well for Daniel to say it probably wasn’t so, but there was at least as much chance that it was, although she had to admit she had not detected a likeness.

  ‘I wasn’t looking for one,’ she told Dumbo as she busied herself in the bedroom one day. The old cat, as usual had followed her upstairs and was sitting on the wicker basket in the corner of the room. ‘Maybe it is an inherited thing, the way I lose the baby each time I’m pregnant. I need to know if there is a connection yet Daniel simply won’t see it that way.’

  She pulled the cover back over the bed and sighed. Her life had changed so much since her marriage and it was all to the good. Daniel respected her mind and they had such wonderful discussions about almost everything under the sun, she sometimes thought. He allowed her an opinion. If he didn’t agree with it he said so and he never shouted at her when she took a different point of view from his own. The only bone of contention was made of straw.

  The halter hung steadfastly on the hook and recently Betsy had tried to imagine it as a straw necklace. Maybe this bitter bile that rose in her throat if she allowed her thoughts to linger on it would stop if she could change the picture of it in her mind.

  It wasn’t easy but she refused to dwell on the prospect that her husband left it there in case he should want to return her and let someone else one day lead her from the market-place. She knew Daniel harboured no such thoughts, she loved and trusted him, they were partners in their husband-and-wife relationship, not master and servant as in so many marriages. Yet the halter was the one thing he would not discuss. Nor would he move it.

  ‘It stays,’ he thundered at her one day. ‘I need it.’ He looked so menacing and as he turned quickly away and strode across the room he did look and sound ugly, his normally gentle voice hoarse with a passionate anger. She could not understand why it meant so much to him. He, who gave generously over everything else would not give her this one thing that he knew she longed for. That row had lasted longer than most of their little skirmishes. For three nights she turned her back and moved far over to the edge of the bed, and when he rolled towards her she roughly pushed him back. Yet he didn’t even try to take her, simply returned to his side of the double bed.

  The days were almost normal because Daniel was out in the fields and Jim the farm-hand was there at midday. They were cool with each other but they spoke and the situation did not develop into a silence or more arguments. Yet she knew the matter was settled. Over the straw halter he had proved to be the master.

  The night when Sadie the cow died was when they once again curled into each other’s arms. She had been poorly for several days and Jim reported that she was ’bout the same,’ shaking his young head and looking sadder than usual before he left, well after his normal time.

  Daniel returned to look at her after his meal on Saturday evening. He was gone longer than Betsy expected and she went to see what was happening. They had isolated Sadie, putting her into a shed with lots of straw and water and Daniel was there on his hands and knees beside the creature and talking to her.

  He looked up as Betsy came over. ‘Nothing more we can do for her,’ he said quietly. Squatting beside him she touched the cow’s flanks.

  ‘Poor old thing,’ she said, ‘Will any of the others be infected?’

  ‘No. She has milk–fever. Jim and I have tried everything. Meg is suckling her calf and she’s doing fine.’

  Betsy stayed for an hour, then returned to the house and poured two drinks which she took back with her.

  ‘Thanks.’ He drank some then turned to her, ‘I love you, Betsy,’ he said.

  ‘And I love you too, Daniel.’ She leaned forward and there beside the dying cow, their lips met in a brief kiss. An hour later Sadie suddenly gave a huge sigh and breathed her last. Daniel and Jim buried Sadie very early on Sunday morning and Betsy went into the field and watched the tiny calf lying down with Meg.

  Next market-day Betsy went with Daniel, and although she watched for Sir Richard Choicely or his retainer, she did not see them.

  Richard Choicely was sitting in the window-seat of the Roebuck Inn when Betsy and Daniel stopped outside. They were talking and laughing together and again, as he had done that night when they had brought his steward back after the accident, he thought what a beauty the woman was.

  He recognized her immediately, and as neither of them was looking his way he allowed his gaze to wander from her glorious dark hair to her finely turned ankles, which were just showing beneath her dress. Her face and figure were superb, he thought. She reminded him of someone. Probably an actress whom he had seen.

  ‘Hello, Richard. I’m a bit late, the business took longer than I thought. Have you ordered?’ Reluctantly Richard Choicely turned from the window to greet his friend William. When he looked back a few seconds later Betsy and Daniel were touching hands then each went off in different directions.

  Following his gaze William said, ‘She is a beauty, isn’t she. Got your eye on her?’

  ‘Of course not. It is just that she reminds me of someone but I cannot think whom.’

  ‘She looks like a younger version of your mother to me. Noticed her as I came in. Ravishing. An absolute stunner.’

  Business and eating took up the next hour or so for Richard, and it wasn’t until he was on the homeward run that he thought again about the girl in the market-place. Of course William was right, she did look a bit like his mother. More than a bit, uncannily like her.

  When he reached home and divested himself of his garments he poured himself a whiskey and went into the long gallery to look at the painting of his mother which was hanging there along with the other Choicely family portraits.

  The likeness was unmistakable. His thoughts flew back twenty years to his brother Benjamin. Was it possible? There had been talk about a rough woman from one of the villages arriving one day and demanding to see him. She made such a fuss that his father eventually spoke to her. What he told her Richard never knew, except that the woman went away and they never saw her again, but he heard the rumours circulating among the servants that: ‘Young Benjamin’s been at it again and this one means business.’

  Only a month later Ben had been killed in a horse-riding accident. It was an unusual accident to befall an experienced rider because no one else seemed to be involved and there were no trees or obstacles lying in his path to have caused his horse to stumble.

  Sir Benjamin and Lady Choicely were devastated and for a while Lady Helen went into a decline. Ben was her firstborn and favourite child. Richard had known this since he was a small boy and understood it to be because he was the heir to the Choicely estate. As he grew older he discovered another reason for her preference. The young Benjamin was the image of his mother’s father, whom she had adored, whereas he, Richard, had inherited his father’s looks and temperament.

  The two brothers were as unlike each other as could be. Benjamin’s hair had a gleaming blackness like his mother’s, his eyes were almost navy-blue and dancing with merriment, even when he was a child. Richard’s san
dy-coloured hair imitated his father’s and his grey-green eyes were, he knew, more serious than Ben’s twinkling ones that seemed to get him anything he wanted. When Benjamin Choicely died in that freak accident Richard became the heir apparent.

  Now he wondered about the girl. She appeared to be the right age and the more he pictured her in his mind’s eye the more he saw the family likeness. He had never known his maternal grandfather but his mother would relate tales of heroic deeds credited to him and as a young child he often wished he had the black hair and laughing eyes that came down through that side of the family. It seemed to open the door to so much that was fun, and the young Richard would have liked more of that. As it was he was cast as the intellectual boy and in truth even that had been hard work.

  He struggled with studies to please his parents, to gain a little more of their attention and praise. It never worked for him. He was a good horseman but Ben was a brilliant one. He was a proficient archer but Ben was better. He was an admirable cricketer but Ben was an inspired one. The only thing he outshone his brother in was gentleness and that was not a quality that counted for a great deal in the Choicely family.

  He was known in the servants’ quarters as the caring son; he knew this because the cook mentioned it one day when he had been particularly upset over a treat that he had been promised and which was stopped because he had answered his father back. Not that he had told her, but she seemed to know just the same.

  ‘’Tis a crying shame,’ she said, as she set a glass of home-made lemonade before him in the kitchen. ‘That young scoundrel Ben would have got away with it. But don’t you fret, Master Richard, we all know your worth down here. You’re the caring one and in the long run that’s what will count. Your brother may be having the best of it now but he’ll get his comeuppance one day, you’ll see.’

  He used to spend a great deal of time below stairs then, but was careful not to let his parents know because he knew it would be banned. Often when they thought he was out roaming the grounds he had sneaked back in through the laundry door of the servants’ quarters where he always felt welcome. In later years, when he succeeded to the baronetcy he thought it had helped him enormously to fulfil his duties because he knew and understood the working people so well.

  If, and it is a very big if, he told himself – but if that girl is Ben’s daughter she may have a claim to the estate. Not a legitimate one because of the circumstances of her birth, but a claim in his eyes, nevertheless. The gentle one had inherited something from the maternal side of his family, even if it was not their dark good looks and vivacity. That was self-preservation. If the girl was who she undoubtedly could be, he wanted to find out quietly. After all, his brother had been the elder and he had left no heirs. Could this be an unofficial heiress? If the position had been reversed he knew Ben would have laughed and denied it, and as she was illegitimate she would have no legal rights, but if she was his brother’s daughter and his niece Richard wanted to know.

  Chapter 5

  Richard Choicely made a few discreet enquiries about Betsy Forrester, the farmer’s wife. His findings neither proved nor disproved his suspicions about her being his brother’s child.

  He discovered that a certain George Hatton had had a wife who was much younger than he, but no children. He learned that he also was a farmer, but here his information stopped. No one was able to tell him in what way Betsy Forrester had been connected to Hatton.

  He did not visit the farmer, feeling that it would be inappropriate for a man of his standing. He did not let the mystery go however, and quietly pursued his quest through others whenever he had the opportunity.

  It was some weeks after this that he discovered the girl who was haunting his thoughts had once worked in Wren Court which was but an hour’s drive away from Chasebury Manor. Much closer than where the farmer Hatton lived. Richard decided to pay a visit to Wren Court.

  John Wallasey, who still lived there with his wife Sarah, at first denied any knowledge of her. ‘Servants come and go,’ he said, but eventually he confirmed, with prompting from Sarah, that a child called Betsy had once worked for his late mother. They both said they had no idea where she had come from before that, nor what had happened to her. Richard had to accept this but felt sure they knew more than they told.

  With his fondness for chatting to the servants however, he discovered that Betsy’s name before her marriage had been Salden. He extended his detective work to several nearby villages, gradually widening his area until he learned of a family of that name who lived in Marshdean.

  Other business interests prevented him from doing much for a while and it was almost six months and well into autumn when he donned a peasant’s outfit for a trip to Marshdean. He did not travel in the carriage but in the pony and trap.

  ‘Put me down just outside the village and give me a couple of hours,’ he told John, his driver, ‘then pick me up here.’

  He strode away, walking at a brisk pace. It was noon, the weather was mild and pleasant and he felt excited about this expedition to uncover the mystery. In his youth he hadn’t really mourned his brother for they were never close, but now he wanted to find out because he could not seem to get the farmer’s wife out of his mind for long. And he found the family likeness to his mother uncanny.

  When he came to the George and Dragon he went in. It was well patronized but not crowded. He ordered a beer and bread and cheese. Sitting at the bar he looked around before selecting a thin man with dull grey hair and a short to middling grey beard, who appeared to be alone. He took his drink and food across to the table.

  ‘Mind if I join you,’ he said.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ the man replied. He looked to be in his fifties or sixties and if he was a villager he was likely to know the family.

  ‘I’m a stranger here but I’m looking for a family called Salden,’ Richard said. ‘I was told they came from these parts. Don’t know them by any chance, do you?’

  ‘Can’t say as I do. Why d’you want to know.’

  Richard was expecting this one. ‘I have a message for one of them. She’s called Betsy Salden.’ He watched the old man’s eyes and face as he said the name and had the satisfaction of seeing a glimmer of recognition.

  ‘No, never ’eard of ’em.’

  Richard indicated his three-quarters finished ale. ‘Let me get you some more,’ he said, rising from his seat.

  Twenty minutes later he left the inn, armed with the knowledge he wanted. ‘Big family,’ his informant had told him. ‘Couldn’t tell you the names of most of ’em but Betsy, she stood out. Real beauty she was for all she was so young.’

  ‘Young, how young?’

  ‘Just a kid. Nine or ten. Went into service somewhere. Used to come home once a year and she made yer mouth water she did. Never saw her much after she turned fourteen or fifteen. Some of the family’s still about, though I did hear the mother died last year. She could have been good-looking in her youth, I shouldn’t wonder, but nine or ten kids did for her.’ He chuckled suddenly. ‘Nice drop of ale they serves here.’ Richard walked to the bar and bought him another.

  The man slurped noisily. ‘Thank ye. What’s your business with ’em?’

  ‘Knew them years ago. I’ve been travelling and wondered how they were. Would you know where they’re living now?’

  ‘Still at the old place, far as I know.’

  Richard, who had noticed many flower names for the cottages as he walked down the street, said, ‘I could never remember the name of their cottage, but it’s down the bottom there, isn’t it? Violet or Ivy or something.’

  ‘Rose,’ the old man said, almost bursting with information now his thirst was being regularly sated. ‘On the left in Wicket Lane at bottom of hill. Did hear there was a to-do about it after the old lady died. She was the tenant see, but one of the older children and his family took it over. Bit of fighting about it. Betsy Salden,’ he mused softly, ‘Mm-mm. Not seen ’er fer years. She didn’t come back to the village I know
that. You wouldn’t miss a girl with her looks.’

  Richard thanked him and left. He followed the main street where the pub was for a few hundred yards and, following the old man’s instructions, turned into the lane on the left. Half-way down he found what he was looking for: Rose Cottage, which stood out from its neighbours by its dereliction. There were no flowers in the small garden as in some of the others, and the yellowing grass was long.

  Richard approached the front door. He had planned what to say and when after a few moments a voice from the yard where the back door was situated called irritably, ‘What d’you want?’ he made to go towards it.

  ‘We don’t want nothing.’ The voice was surly and the door banged shut. Richard stood for a moment contemplating his next move when it suddenly opened again. An unkempt and unshaven man blocked the entrance, ‘You don’t look the begging sort. What you come for?’

  He obviously hoped it was to give them something good, and regretted his first instinctive slamming of the door.

  ‘I’m looking for Betsy Salden.’

  The man spat. ‘What for?’

  ‘I knew her years ago. Wondered if she was still here.’

  The man cackled noisily. ‘Not her. Never come near the place once ’er mother kicked the bucket. Good riddance too, I say. Too ’igh an’ mighty ever since she were little.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What you want ’er for? You got some money for ’er, then?’

  Richard smiled – he’d thought as much when the man called him back. Good job he didn’t look anything like Ben or Betsy, who, he was becoming surer than ever now, was his brother’s daughter by this Salden woman who died last year.

  ‘No. Just wanted to look her up for old times’ sake.’ He moved swiftly down the path, aware that the man was watching intently. He tried to slouch and not appear to stride out, to make it seem he was simply a wanderer and not a man with a purpose.