“No, no, darling, it was an accident. You can't blame yourself. All these years I've seen you work yourself into the ground. From the moment the dawn came you were on your feet, working on the farm until the light failed and then, when other women were off to their bed, you would take up your spinning, or weaving, making swills or rush-lights and you did it not just for your own pride, as you call it, but to make a life for Cat, for Phoebe, for yourself. And if you were proud of what you achieved, what of it? You had reason to be proud. Look what your labour has provided. Look how far you have come. You have a working, profitable farm, small but making its way, paying for itself, feeding four mouths . . "
“Four mouths, Charlie . . ."
“Sweet Jesus, how could I I. . ."
“It's . . . all right, Charlie. I do it myself. I see her everywhere. Wait for her as though she is just . . . beyond the door and will come through it in a minute. Four of us. . ."
“There will be four again, if you will allow it." "You mean . . . ?"
“I am home, Annie."
“For good?"
“Yes . . .”
She began to mend from that moment. Would she ever be completely whole again? That was for time to reveal, but though Charlie had not yet regained that wry, lively way he had with him, that self-mocking humour which was so endearing, it seemed his presence gave them all, Natty, Phoebe, Annie, those who had seen what Charlie Lucas had not, a strange peace. They talked, the three of them, far into the night, while in the background, whittling on his shepherd's crook, Natty listened, saying nothing, wondering how Mr Macauley would take the return of this chap into the life of the woman he had, so to speak, put into Natty's care. It was almost a year, it seemed from what they said, since Charlie Lucas had gone.
“Did you not go to Yorkshire then, Charlie?" Annie asked him, the bright interest in her eyes a relief to Natty, who had begun to believe they would never see the returnof the Annie Abbott beside whom he had worked since Charlie Lucas left.
“No, I stood on the station at Penrith and decided to toss a coin, north or south but Yorkshire is a long way and the fare to Carlisle was all I could manage . ."
“You sold your watch."
“How did you know that?"
“I was told by . . . a friend." Her eyes became shuttered. So, it was still Reed Macauley then, Charlie's loving heart anguished, for who else would know such a thing, but then had he expected anything different? When Annie Abbott gave her love it was not given lightly, nor withdrawn easily, if at all.
“Well, I went to Carlisle and fell in with some old Chartist friends who had begun a small newspaper, one the working men, those who could read, might afford. They had gone up there to . . . avoid the law years ago. As I had when I met you."
“You were a Chartist?"
“Oh yes, and in my heart I still am. I was always one for the underdog, Annie, having been one myself on so many occasions." He grinned impishly and Annie took his hand between hers.
“Oh, Charlie," she said seriously, "I do love you."
“I know, sweetheart, and I love you, and Phoebe, and . . . I loved Cat, you know that."
“I know you did. She went to school, Charlie, did you know that? She was so clever."
“. . . to school, a real school . . . ?"
“Yes, she was given a scholarship. Miss Mossop who was the headteacher and the owner of the school, awarded it to a girl who could not ordinarily afford her fees and Cat was chosen." Her face glowed with loving pride, though her eyes brimmed with tears.
“I knew she had it in her. She was bright beyond her years. Did Miss Mossop see her work then? How did she get to hear of Cat? Was there a judge who . . . ?”
Annie leaned back on the settle reflectively and Natty's hands stilled.
“Why, I don't know. I don't know how . . . it was . . .
At once, his mind, quicker than Annie's who was still not completely out of the numbed state into which Cat's death had thrust her, studied the question of the scholarship which had been awarded without the work of its recipient having been glanced at, coming, of course and at once, to the truth. Not that he would tell Annie since to take away her pride in her daughter's abilities, real as they had been, was beyond his love.
“They would have seen it when she went to be interviewed," he said quickly.
“There was no interview."
“Then . . ."
“Yes, Charlie, then how was it revealed to Miss Mossop that there was a clever child near Gillthrop who would benefit from her teaching? Only one man . . ."
“Nevertheless, she did win it, Annie."
“If it existed."
“Then who . . ."
“He paid her fees, Charlie. He must have done.”
There was a long awkward silence. Into the room came the tall and thrusting presence of Reed Macauley and for the first time Annie allowed it, re-living that moment when he had told her Cat was to go to school. He had lied to her, knowing she would refuse charity. He had tricked her so lovingly. Given her what she most wanted for her child, but allowing her to believe for her wretched pride's sake that he did nothing beyond ferry Cat backwards and forwards to Grasmere. And how happy Cat had been. She had thrived in those few months, leaving behind the silent, withdrawn child her life had made of her, becoming lively, vivid, fulfilled, as she soaked up the knowledge Miss Mossop poured into her receptive brain. He had given her that. He had given it to Annie, and to Cat, without looking for gratitude or reward. It had not lasted long, but Cat's short life had been enriched by it, and Annie Abbott would never forget it, or him.
She continued to wear the black dress but beneath it she had on her father's trousers and when she strode offup the fells to look at her ewes and their lambs, she tucked up her skirt into the belt, as she had seen gypsy women do, giving herself the freedom she had known for years. When she came down again, or when she and Phoebe went to the market in Keswick, her modest skirt swirled about her clogs and though she did not wear a bonnet, her hair was pulled back fiercely from her face, braided, then coiled tightly about her proudly held head. She had an air of decency about her, of respectability, and it was seen that one or two men nodded amiably to her as she went by. Her farm was thriving. She had over a hundred sheep, counting her ewes and the lambs they had dropped at the beginning of the month. A cow, a pig, hens, acres of land under cultivation and two men working for her.
When at the end of May it became known that Reed Macauley's wife had left him and gone home to Yorkshire with her father, the whole of the parish of Bassenthwaite rocked with it, wondering, as it held its collective breath, what was to happen now.
They had not long to wait.
He was at her door a couple of weeks later.
“She has gone," were the first words he spoke to her. She stood, her hand on the latch, her face white and thin above the dense black of her dress, but more beautiful than ever. Her drawn back hair allowed the fine bones of her face to show, the delicacy of her arched brows, the faint suggestion of hollows in her cheeks, the deep, glowing depth of her golden brown eyes. About her broad white brow tendrils of copper escaped the severity of her hair style and over her ears longer wisps fell and curled. She was not yet twenty-three years old and he loved her so much, it was all he could do not to pull her over the doorstep and into his arms.
“I've been to London to see a lawyer about a divorce. An Act of Parliament, it'll take, and plenty of money but I will have it no matter how long it takes and if it costs me every penny I own. Two bloody weeks I've been there but I came directly from Penrith. Will you marry me?”
Behind her she heard the indrawn hiss of Phoebe's breath. They were eating their evening meal, the four of them sitting about the sturdy oak table beneath the kitchen window. The dying day cast a washed and muted light about the room which was restful, cosy with the crackle of the fire, comfortable and easy with the presence of the dozing animals and the four people who understood one another so well. Even Natty who had been
Annie's friend, since that was what he was now, for only a year, was as much a part of her daily life and her affections as though she had known him a lifetime. All four had frozen in dread when Reed Macauley's mare clattered into the yard, and all four had different reasons for it. Charlie's was one of a man who sees his woman threatened, Phoebe's that of a woman who sees the composure of a dearly loved friend, one who is still frail, ready to be smashed to pieces, and Natty's, who knew exactly what lengths Reed Macauley would go to to get what he wanted, was fear, not only for Annie, but for the man at the table who was ready to stand in his way. Annie's fear was not of what Reed might do, but that she would not be able to resist.
“I'll go," she had said, standing up slowly. With the return of her senses, and her reason, had come a return of her love for the man whose thunderous knock at her door had the dogs barking in furious unison. A hurting love which had been buried deep beneath the agony of her loss. A love which she could not deal with in her damaged state so she had hidden it, but now it was back and she could not help the bright glow of gladness, the tricky leap of joy inside her as she looked, her love in her eyes, into those of Reed Macauley.
“Will you, my darling?" His voice was tender, his eyes as soft a blue as she had ever seen them and she swayed towards him, unable to stop herself. "It could be years but in the meanwhile . . ."
“In the meanwhile she's to become your doxy, is that it?”
The latch was taken from her hand as the door swung open and behind her the tall figure of Charlie loomed. He put his hands possessively on her shoulders, drawing herback against him and the physical snarling menace of Reed Macauley who did not care to see another man's hands on his woman, never far below the surface, surged and escaped, trampling on the aching tenderness which had bathed Annie Abbott in its glow. His eyes, which had smiled so softly into hers, suddenly held a terrible blankness but the scorching heat of his jealous rage lapped against her and she put out her hands as though to prevent him from coming nearer.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?" His voice was harsh and he struck at his own booted leg with his riding whip, evidently wanting nothing more than to lay it across Charlie's face.
“I might ask you the same."
“That is between me and Annie. Now let go of her before I do you some damage."
“I will when she tells me to."
“Tell him, Annie."
“Reed . . ."
“Tell him, Annie. Come here to me and tell this .. . bastard who you belong to." His black snapping anger would be let loose in a moment and it threatened those who lived beneath her roof, he was telling her. His face was as white as bleached bone but high on each cheek a flush of scarlet had appeared. His eyes were pale blue murderous slits in the slowly deepening gloom.
“Tell him, Annie, or I swear he will suffer . . ."
“Stop it, Reed . . . Charlie, for God's sake, stop it. Have I not had enough . . ." She wrenched herself away from Charlie who trembled visibly in the grip of his own rage and tormented longing.
“You see, Charlie," Reed said, his mouth cold and hard and contemptuous, "it is not you she belongs to, whatever you might think, or hope, but me. I thought we had seen the last of you, but I was mistaken. No matter, you can go to the devil or stay and run her farm if she cares to employ you. She will not be here. She is coming to live at Long Beck with me. As soon as it can be arranged we will be married . . ."
“Reed . . ."
“Don't worry, my dearest love, you have nothing else to concern yourself with. Just climb up on the mare behind me and I shall take you home. You need bring nothing . . ."
“Reed." Her voice was very quiet. "Go home, Reed." "Annie . . ."
“No, go home, Reed, to your home. Yours and your wife's. I know she has . . . gone away . . . but she will be back. She is your wife and always will be . . . no . . ." as he would have pulled her to him.
“No . . . don't . . . hurt me any more, Reed, please. I can take no more. This is my home. These are my people . . ."
“Annie . . ." His voice was anguished. The lethal anger was gone, and the arrogance, as his love, the strong unselfish love which had developed in him over the slow years since he met her, smoothed it all away, exposing his fear. He could not bear to lose her and he knew if he forced her, pushed her too far beyond her small reserve of strength, he would. To keep her, he must let her go, for now.
“Annie . . ." One last desperate entreaty.
“No, Reed."
“You heard her, Macauley, so get on your horse . . ." "Charlie, stop it . . . leave me alone."
“I won't give up, Annie." Reed's voice was quiet, but strong. "I will have that divorce and when I do . . ." "I know."
“Will you wait for me, my darling?"
“Go home, Reed . . ." and this time he did.
Chapter30
The herd of ponies browsed peacefully, cropping the short tussocky grass with strong, yellowed teeth. Their ears swivelled constantly as they listened for signs of danger, and their tails flicked in graceful, unhurried movements up and across their rumps, disturbing the flies and midges which pestered them. They were not tall, standing no more than fourteen hands, but sturdy, well proportioned and muscular. Their heads were small, as were their pricked ears. Their eyes were lively and prominent, their tails long and full and their coats varied from bay to brown, black and grey.
Any horse, whatever its breed, has such a strong sense of smell it is said that a stallion can detect a mare who is on heat from a distance of half a mile away. The wind, blowing from west to east, carried away from the ponies the scent of the two men and one woman who were creeping up on them from the east, and they continued to tear at the grass, rummaging peacefully amongst the heather shoots which grew above a thousand feet on Ullock Pike.
“Theer's a herd o' ponies up the top o' t' ridge on Ullock," Natty had declared at breakfast that morning. "An' theer's a grand 'un among them an' all. Two, two an' a half years, I'd say. Just right ter train fer t' plough. When 'tis broke, o' course." His tone was laconic and he stuffed his pipe which he had removed to speak, a long speech for him, back in his mouth.
“Can we do it, d'you think?" Annie breathed, her pale face colouring a little with excitement.
“Oh, aye, straight up th'Edge. It be but a short walk an' as long as wind's blowin' towards us . . ."
“No, I meant can we break a wild fell pony to pull a plough?"
“I told you we could years ago. D'you remember the one Jack Bibby had to draw his cart from the mill?" Charlie watched the lovely flush of rose to her cheeks, rejoicing in the improvement in her during the past weeks. It was August, five months since Cat's death, and though she still grieved, deeply and silently within herself, she was beginning to take an interest in her farm again. Not just the forced interest that is needed to fill the enormous hole left by the loss of a loved one, but a genuine concern for the well-being of what she had already gained in the years behind her.
Charlie had taken over Cat's room, sleeping in the narrow truckle bed in which Annie's daughter had slept and about the walls were the simple paintings Cat had done in the six months she had been a pupil at Miss Mossop's school. Flowers, trees, birds, a sleeping basket of kittens, all very crudely done but showing the promise Miss Mossop had hoped to foster. There was a rag doll, made for her years ago by her mother, a hairbrush on the dresser which had once belonged to Lizzie Abbott, her unknown grandmother, and in a drawer her tiny store of treasures. The books he himself had given her, a fir cone she had thought pretty, her beloved satchel, a dried wild flower pressed between two sheets of paper and placed between her freshly laundered undergarments which Phoebe washed and ironed almost every week since she did not want them to become stale, she said. It was her small, loving memorial to the child she had come to think of as her own.
Charlie would lie on the bed at night, the window wide, the stars burning a myriad holes in the blackness of the night sky and sometimes, muffled and barely disc
ernible to anyone who was not listening for it, there would be the sound of desolate weeping but he did not go to her. He was afraid. Afraid to damage the fine thread of understanding which was growing between them and had been ever since Reed Macauley had made his devastating and foolishstatement that he was to get a divorce and marry Annie Abbott. It was as though, knowing finally that there could never be more between herself and Reed than the involvement of a man and his mistress, however loving; that his desperate throw of the dice had made it plain to her how impossible anything else was, she faced the certainty of Charlie Lucas's love for her, and that a life with him would be worthwhile. Would be strong and honest and made up of a great deal which was valuable. Nothing was said but in small ways they were growing closer, more intimate. They did not touch except in the most casual, ordinary way. In the way she and Natty sat shoulder to shoulder on a wall, or she and Phoebe would link arms as they walked up the field, but it meant more between himself and Annie. She knew now how he felt about her. She knew what he wanted and made no objection to it and, recognising her honesty, he was aware that had she not wanted it, or him, she would have said so at once. He would wait. He loved her and would wait. He wanted her so badly. To know that she was no more than a couple of feet away from him was a constant gnawing agony to his male sexuality. Her long slender body lying in its sheath of modest nightgown which his masculine body badly needed to take from her; which his masculine eyes longed to look at, to study, to marvel at and love. His hands were desperate to touch and hold the naked thrusting curve of her breasts, to smooth and caress her long back, her sweetly turned waist and hips, the softly rounded satin of her belly, his fingers to investigate the moist and hidden sweetness at the meeting of her thighs. He had not been celibate in the months he had been away from her, burying his aching loins in other women's bodies but not once, as he pierced them, had he thought of anyone but Annie as he did so.
All the dear faces Page 43