All the dear faces

by Audrey Howard

  The pit of his belly flared now as she leaned back in her chair and put her hands behind her head, her mind dwelling thoughtfully on how they were to capture and break one of the fell ponies Natty had described. She and Natty had meant to spend the day 'riving' the pieces of wood into strips for her swill baskets. When the steaming pieces had been removed from the boiler where they had 'stewed' overnight, each one must be held between the knees to be split, and so she had donned her trousers and shirt that morning so as to be more comfortable. The weight she had lost had been regained and as she raised her arms the buttons on the collarless shirt strained and gaps appeared between them. She wore nothing but a thin cotton chemise beneath it but it was cut low, the two top buttons undone and the soft white skin of her upper breasts was clearly visible to Charlie as he sat beside her. He could see the rosy aureole beneath the fabric of the chemise, as big as guinea pieces and in their centre the pink buds of her nipples, small and pointed. She leaned further back and as he watched her the chemise dropped further and almost the whole of her breasts and both nipples became free beneath the shirt. They were magnificent, dark and yet rosy, surrounded by the creamy white satin of her skin. The shadowy valley between was deep and lovely, the flesh warm and full. He could not look away. His own flesh strained painfully against the crotch of his breeches and his heart hammered in his chest. His mouth became dry and with a muttered excuse he stood up and stumbled from the room into the warm, summer sunshine.

  He stood for ten minutes, fastened by his pain, not just the physical pain of a man roused and refused an outlet for that arousal but the need, the strong emotional need of a man who loves honestly, truly, and is denied a means to show it. It was so unbelievably beautiful on this empty shore of the lake. There were fields between it and Brow-head, and trees, but he could see the ripples on the water, shading as the breeze moved it, into patches of gold which eddied to silver. The patches grew and merged until half the lake was gold, the other half silver, two separate entities divided by a path of both colours where the sun shone across it, surrounded by a necklace of trees of every shade of green amongst which, on the other side of the lake, a small white farmhouse sheltered. There were celandines growing from the rocks on the water's edge, rough, greyrock patterned with the green of moss. Charlie loved it, loved her. They were intertwined, the beloved woman, the beautiful lake, and he knew he would never leave either, not while he lived.

  They walked the wide shoulder of rough fell which turned south and climbed as a narrowing ridge to the dark and symmetrical peak of Ullock Pike before they saw the ponies. Annie strode beside him, coatless, for the day was warm and he was breathlessly aware again of her glorious breasts as they bounced, joyfully unconstrained with nothing between them and Charlie's eyes and hands but the thin stuff of her chemise and the worn fabric of her father's shirt. He could still see the outline of her nipples and he was forced to drop behind, conscious that the exquisite folly of looking at her, at her body, must in some way be curtailed.

  They passed through The Watches, a strange huddle of upstanding rocks growing from the grass which were believed to be a Druids' Circle though Charlie said he was of the opinion that the formation was natural. His voice, as he spoke, sounded high and strained but Natty and Annie did not seem to notice. The ponies were above them, just before what was known as The Edge began and at once Natty signalled for them to drop down on their bellies.

  “Wait here," he whispered, slithering off on some errand of his own and, shoulders touching, so close he had only to turn his head to look into her face, they lay side by side, hidden in the fragrant depths of the summer weather.

  He turned his head. Her cheek was pressed flat to the earth and her brown, excited eyes smiled into his. He smiled back, the warm strength of his love for her stripping away inhibition, restraint, sense. He moved a fraction closer and with great delicacy laid his lips to hers. For a moment, an appalling moment he thought she was going to flinch away, then she relaxed. Neither of them closed their eyes. Pale grey looked into golden brown, truth between them since he knew she did not love him as he loved her and what did it matter? he asked himself for her mouth softened and opened for him and it was sweet and willing.

  “My love . . . my love . . ." His breath, fresh and pure, brushed her chin and her cheek, then his mouth moved to her throat and she let him, arching her neck, lifting her chin so that his lips might move more freely towards the open neck of her shirt.

  “I love you so much."

  “I know, Charlie."

  “My love . . ." and his mouth found hers again so that when Natty crept back they were unaware of it until he touched Annie's shoulder. They did not jump apart guiltily but turned their heads to smile at him and in Natty's eyes was a deep, glad understanding. She would be all right now.

  “Theer's a fine little bay, theer, can tha' see 'im, Charlie?" His whisper was close to Charlie's ear and reluctantly Charlie took away the arm he had placed across Annie's shoulders.

  “Yes, but how are we to get him away from the herd?"

  “Nay lad, ah've catched many a youngster such as 'im in me day. Let's see if ah remember 'ow. Ah want thee an' Annie ter creep round t'other side of 'em so that they get wind o' thi'. Shout as loud as thi' can. They'll run this way and ah'll be ready fer 'un." He patted the length of rope he had wound about his waist.

  There were sixteen of them. A mature stallion, seven mares and their foals. It was surprising to see a young male amongst the herd since a stallion will drive away any usurper when he is about eighteen months old, but the colt grazed peaceably enough though it was noticed it kept well away from the 'leader'. Several of the foals were lying down in the sunshine.

  It was like a child's game and both Charlie and Annie were giggling like children as they slithered through the heather, stopping frequently to lift their heads to see where the ponies were. Once he stopped her with his hand on her arm and when she turned questioningly, hekissed her again, more deeply. It was as though he was reminding her, placing his mark on her, telling her that the previous exchange had been serious despite the lightness of their embrace. She made no objection again, lifting her face to him willingly, smilingly.

  When they stood up and shouted the herd at once took flight, the foals, perhaps only months old, scrambling to their feet and following their mothers without a moment's hesitation, fast, automatic, a fundamental reaction which had been bred in them when predators such as wolves had threatened their ancestors. In the panic which ensued the ponies could barely see where they were going, and when Natty stood up directly in their path, the whistling song of his rope settled over the bay's head. It went unnoticed by the stallion, and certainly by the mares who had one ear on the disturbance and one on their own foal.

  Annie looked as she had done before Cat's death. Her eyes were a brilliantly deep golden brown, clear and sharp with her joyous laughter. The colour ran gloriously beneath her skin and her mouth was wide in a great cry of excitement. She jumped up and down and clapped her hands when she saw that Natty had the bay, looking so like her own daughter in her delight, Charlie felt he could weep. For sweet, lovely Cat who was gone and for Annie who, at last, was coming alive again.

  It took a long time to fetch the colt in. He squealed and stamped and kicked, his eyes rolling and wild with terror and rage, his hooves lethal as they struck out at Natty who held the rope and at Charlie who tried to throw an arm about his neck.

  “Let 'im go, tha' daft bugger," Natty shouted. "Let 'im wear 'imself out fer a bit. Bye, but 'e's in a right royal temper, that 'e is.”

  They called him 'Royal' and those first few weeks with him were hard and sometimes dangerous, but he was basically sweet tempered and, giving in to the inevitable, gradually became tame, domesticated, not only willing to put up with the hard work and strange things which were expected of him, but becoming interested in these curious but kind creatures who had taken him from his freedom. He was accustomed slowly to what was needed from him, accepting Na
tty, Annie or Charlie as his leaders and companions, as he would other horses. Natty did the training, of course, for neither Annie nor Charlie had known horses. Royal became playful, almost a family pet, walking towards them with ears pricked, a 'long' nose, a jaunty prancing step and high tail, ready for fun since he was only young and Annie learned to ride him bare-backed since there was no such thing as a saddle at Browhead. It seemed to amuse him, to please him and she loved him as she loved Blackie and Bonnie.

  On the day they caught him Natty and Phoebe had gone to their beds early as though by mutual consent, though nothing was said, and Charlie and Annie sat on by the fire. They could hear Royal's 'caterwauling', as Natty had put it, out in the pasture where, in case he should try and jump the drystone wall, Natty had tethered him. He sounded sad and dejected as he called to the herd but gradually his lonely whinnies died away and the dogs, whose ears had pricked in bewilderment at this strange sound, settled to doze in that half-wakeful, half-dozing state they fall into. It had turned cold and Charlie threw a couple of short logs on the fire, the flames leaping in a lively scatter of sparks up the chimney. Normally at this time of night as they made their way to bed the fire would be covered by the 'curfew', a low metal dome which kept it burning slowly, and the glowing embers would, the next morning, then have life breathed back into them with the bellows. But both Charlie and Annie knew that something must be said about what had taken place on Ullock Pike. Charlie with eagerness since he was certain that the time had come for him to stake his claim to the woman he loved. In Annie there was a tinge of dread mixed with a strange resignation since she loved Charlie and could not imagine life without him.

  He lounged opposite her on the settle, his long legs stretched out before him crossed at the ankle, his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets. He had removed hisboots and his stockinged feet were close to the fire. His eyes were on her and when she looked up at him he smiled, sat up and leaned forward.

  “May I kiss you again?" he asked softly, whimsically. "You needed no permission this morning." Her own tone was light.

  “I am an impetuous devil at times," but though the words were humorous the expression in his eyes was very serious.

  “I noticed."

  “You did not object?"

  “No."

  “Then . . . may I?”

  She leaned towards him, lifting her mouth and he took her lips with the sweet delicacy which is the mark of the true lover. When they drew apart his eyes were steady, candid, filled with the deep and endless love which was hers for the taking. It was all there, everything she needed, just as he was always there when she needed him. He was so fine, Charlie, so fine and good. Trustworthy, making light of everything from the twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours' work he often did each day, to the poor state of his old boots, but trustworthy, honest. A man of his word. A gentleman, not just by birth, which he was, but in his very nature. He made her laugh with his droll humour but he was a man, not a milksop, and could curse with the fluency of a soldier. He was her true friend but she knew he wanted more and if she turned him away could he be expected to stay and continue as if this morning had not happened? Her heart ached with the thought of losing his friendship, the deep, satisfying companionship and support which had always been there when she needed it. He had gone away once because of her love for Reed Macauley. Would he do so again for there was no doubt in her mind, no swerving from the truth in her heart which was that she loved Reed and would do so until the day she died. Should she tell Charlie this? There should be truth and trust between friends, as there was between herself and Phoebe, but would the same apply to the man who sat opposite her? There was a great deal of difference in Charlie's masculine love to the female affection she and Phoebe shared.

  “I love you, Annabelle Abbott. Will you marry me?"

  “Oh, Charlie . . . !" She was taken aback. Though she had expected something, a declaration of his love, something, it had not been an offer of marriage and for one awful moment she was terror-stricken. Not marriage, no . . . not marriage for it was so final, so irrevocable. Reed was married but he had said . . . a divorce . . . no, don't be foolish. . . and if she married Charlie . . . she would be tied, this dreadful voice said and then if Reed got a .. . could be made free to marry her . . . No! . . . No! . . . it's not possible . . . folly. . . madness. . . and yet something inside her struggled desperately to avoid the commitment Charlie was asking her to make. But think of the peace, another voice said, the comfort, the protection, the end to the perpetual storm of Reed's love, his demanding love which, if she did not marry Charlie, and end it, would go on and on until she succumbed to it, and him.

  “I had not thought of marriage, Charlie," she said slowly. Her thoughts, so many and varied, so harrowing and conflicting had taken but a few seconds and he seemed to assume her hesitation to be no more than any woman's at the offer of marriage and yet a woman who loves, in the way a woman truly loves a man, will not hesitate.

  “I have thought of nothing else, my darling. I love you . . . so much, there are no words to describe it." He smiled, a smile of such blinding sweetness, understanding and love she felt the warmth of it, the glowing tender warmth wrap about her, hold her in safe arms, as his would be, but again she hesitated.

  “I said once that I loved you, Charlie, do you remember?"

  “Yes, but you meant . . . as a friend. I can tell the difference, my love, but it seems I do not care. I want you to come to me and ... I nearly said `to be mine' but I don't believe that one human being can possess another .. How wrong you are, dear Charlie .. .

  “. . . I want you to love me in any way you can. Love is such a worthwhile emotion and should not be despised if it is . . . not quite what one hopes for, but if you will marry me there is no doubt in my mind, none, that what we will have will be a worthwhile thing, Annie. Don't waste it, my lovely girl, don't waste us."

  “Charlie, sweet, darling, Charlie . . .”

  An appalled expression flooded his eyes. "Christ, you're going to say 'no', aren't you?" He made a small, painful sound in his throat and turned away from her to hide his fear. Bonnie, sensing the distress in him got up and came to his knee and Charlie placed a trembling hand on the animal's head. His pale, cat-like eyes were almost black in the dim light as the pupils widened and darkened.

  “Charlie, I'm not ready yet, to say yes or no." You lie, the cool voice within her said. If Reed Macauley, free of all encumbrances, stood before you with an offer of marriage you would snap it up so eagerly you would take his hand off at the wrist to get at it. And yet it was true, what she had said to Charlie. She was still not the Annie Abbott she had been once. She was not in a fit state to make any decision and to take Charlie's love and twist it for her own convenience was not only unfair but cruel. The temptation was great. To thankfully fall into his arms. Let him take her to bed, now, tonight, so that in the morning she would, despite what he said, belong to him. There would be no looking back to Reed Macauley, nor looking forward to the foolish promise he had made. It would be irreversible, no going back or changing her mind, no more decisions to be made. She and Charlie, the farm, perhaps children .. . oh, yes, another child, a daughter . . . like Cat, but not Cat for she would have Charlie's blood in her, a son . . . a boy to inherit the farm. She would be Mrs Charles Lucas, respectable, no longer Annie Abbott, the woman from Browhead. The farm would grow and prosper. Her future, with Charlie to stand beside her, work beside her, would be secure, hard, for certain, but secure in Charlie's love. She was well aware that in the last few months she had let her weakened state lean on Charlie, had allowed him to anticipate perhaps, more than she intended. They had shared secret smiles, a subtle changing in their relationship, a small degree of intimacy which had suggested, hinted at, a growth of it in the future.

  He turned back to her, his hands reaching for hers and he did his best to smile.

  “Annie . . ." He looked down at their twined fingers and his throat worked painfully. She wanted to soothe him, com
fort him, run her fingers through his brown thatch of curls and smooth them from his forehead. Her loving friendship surged through her on a great tide and she almost said it. Almost said 'yes'. She wanted to lift the misery which had come upon him, which she had caused. Take him in her arms and tell him she would be his wife and anything else he wanted until their wedding day, but it was not love that made her want to do it, but compassion. How could she hurt him when he had given her so much? Her sanity. A reason to live.

  “Annie," he began again. "I have hoped, these last weeks. . . ."

  “I know, Charlie, and perhaps . . .”

  At once he looked up at her, hopeful, ready to smile if she would.

  “Perhaps . . . Annie?"

  “When I'm . . . oh Charlie, you know how much . . ." "Yes? How much you love me? You must not say it if you don't mean it."

  “I do mean it."

  “A man and a woman love in a special way, Annie. Good Christ, you know that." His voice was passionate, . . and that is what I want from you but if you can't give me that, then by God, I'll take anything you can give me. Bloody hell, I'm not proud, Annie, I'm a man who loves . . ."

  “I know, Charlie, but . . ."

  “Let it . . . lie for now, Annie. Don't say no. Think about it. Dammit, I shouldn't be pushing you, not now when you are still mourning . . ."

  “I'm .. . I still seem to be incapable of decisions, Charlie. My mind is stunned . . . sometimes, and it .. . hurts ... I hurt so much without her."

  “Ssh . . . ssh . . . my love . . ." and without conscious thought, without the sexual ardour which had so unmanned him that morning he drew her from her chair and on to the settle beside him. His arms were round her tightly and hers crept about his neck. Her wet face pressed into the hollow beneath his chin as the devastation of her grief overwhelmed her and he rocked her back and forth. The thick plait of her hair became untwisted and it fell in a rippling, dishevelled tide about her face and shoulders, falling down her back to her waist and across her breast. His hands gripped it and his arms crushed her shivering body to him, his love, strong and incontestable, holding her secure in her grief.