All the dear faces

by Audrey Howard

  The letter was addressed to Miss Annie Abbott and asked her in the most courteous tones if it would be convenient for her to call in at the bank in Market Place in Keswick, where the manager had something of importanceto discuss with her. He could not reveal what it was in the letter he said, since it was a matter of the utmost delicacy. She had only to call in at any time and he would be honoured to receive her, any time.

  She put on her new gown.

  “I think it would be appropriate if you accompanied me, Phoebe."

  “Me?" Phoebe was flabbergasted. "But ah've the butter ter churn an' them potatoes . . ."

  “Never mind the potatoes. They can be done tomorrow."

  “But cannot tha' go on tha' own? Tha' always do." "Not this time, Phoebe. Put on your new dress and Charlie will drive us in the cart. It's market day after all." "But . . ."

  “Don't argue, Phoebe, it's time."

  “Time for what?"

  “For wearing dresses," and with this mysterious answer, it seemed Phoebe must be content.

  Chapter 38

  They caused a minor sensation in Keswick. It was the day of the Hiring Fair and the market place was packed from building to building with all the men and women who had been there on that day, five years ago, when she had come looking for work at the inn. They all knew her and her notorious past. They had become accustomed to the indecent way she dressed, to the sight of her long heavy hair rippling carelessly down her back, to the way she strode out with her trousered, unwomanly legs, and to her complete lack of concern with the niceties which even the poorest woman in the district regarded. They didn't like it, but they had become used to it, and to her. Her name had been sullied many years ago when she had run off with that strolling player and when she had returned she had deliberately, or so it seemed to them, flaunted convention by taking in, presumably as her lover, that well-spoken but flippant fellow from God-only-knewwhere. Her name had been linked with that of Reed Macauley, so much so it had driven his young wife out of her own home, and now, he was gone for good, some said, and it could only be the fault of the woman from Browhead.

  The cart moved slowly along the market place, Charlie speaking soothingly to Royal who was not awfully sure he cared for the press of people about him, towards the Moot Hall in its centre, the lower floor of which housed the covered market, its upper the council chamber where the Lords of the manor held court. Their passage was slow since those who had come to the twice-yearly hiring fair, placing themselves where they might be studied by those who were looking for maidservants, labourers, shepherds, yardmen, stable lads, stood in long meandering lines downthe street. There was little interest in the cart at first for everyone in the market place was hurrying and scurrying here and there, intent on their own business or standing behind their stalls, arranging and re-arranging their wares more attractively, haggling with customers and generally engaged in the business of making a profit. There were other vehicles, a carriage or two, farm carts, passing along the street and the one carrying Annie, Phoebe and Charlie was almost at the Moot Hall before a farmwife from up Orthwaite way recognised the elegant young woman who swayed gracefully with the movement of the cart as it passed her stall. The woman in the cart was not only elegant, she was beautiful in her tawny gown and slipping shawl, her russet hair catching fire in a gleam of sunlight. Her back was straight and her head tipped imperiously with the weight of her hair and when she turned to speak to her companion, her long golden eyes narrowing in a smile, the woman from Orthwaite could only stand and gawp, her hand still held out to receive the few coppers a customer was putting in it. The customer, herself a regular visitor to the market, turned to look where the stallholder stared and her own mouth fell open. The live chicken she had just purchased squawked indignantly, and she was so startled she let go of it, allowing it to flutter awkwardly under the feet of a passing farmer. He cursed, ready to give her 'what for' but he, in his turn, followed her gaze, his eyes popping as he watched the progress of Annie Abbott along the market place.

  It spread like wildfire, men nudging other men, women whispering to a neighbour, and though those who had come to hire themselves out did not know her, for many had tramped from places as far away as Penrith or Windermere, they stared nevertheless, for Annie Abbott was a woman worth staring at. The cart continued on to the left of the Moot Hall into Station Street. By now the word that some stupendous sight might be seen had reached the Royal Oak Hotel on the corner of the street, and men crowded at every window.

  “It seems we are giving the good folk of Keswick something to talk about, Annie," Charlie's voice was laconic.

  “That's nothing new, is it?"

  “I suppose not. But they have not seen you dressed so superbly before."

  “No, they will be speculating on where, or how, I got the money to buy such finery. It would not, of course, occur to them that I earned it honestly, and with hard work."

  “Annie, don't you realise by now how much you liven up their drab lives? They would be quite devastated if you turned respectable."

  “I am respectable, Charlie."

  “I know that, Annie, but they don't.”

  Charlie, whose clothing, that which he had worn when he first came to Browhead, had been burned when he was ill, was dressed in the casual manner of a man of the land. A pair of well-made hodden-grey breeches, contrived by Phoebe and Annie who swore they could easily make a living in the tailoring trade, they were becoming so proficient, with knee-length military-style boots. A shooting jacket like that of a gamekeeper with many pockets beneath which he wore a hand-knitted woollen jerkin. A 'wide-awake' hat with a low crown and a wide brim was set at a jaunty angle over his eyes. These had been purchased at one of the second-hand clothes stalls which abounded in the market, but by now Annie was paying Charlie a wage and he meant to have a decent suit of clothing made when he had saved enough money, he told her.

  He handed them down from the cart with such a flourish it might have been a carriage drawn by four matched greys, and the crowd of onlookers had the strangest inclination to applaud for really, could you help but admire her, the woman from Browhead? She had turned to smile at them like visiting royalty, the smile somewhat sardonic, before she entered the bank which stood in Station Street and what, they asked one another, was she doing there? By God, she looked well, the men told one another, remembering perhaps, those who had been served theirale by her at The Packhorse many years ago, the shabbiness of her dress then. The women were inclined to pull their faces since it seemed to them the wages of sin must be very high indeed.

  The manager sat them down with much ceremony, wringing his hands and bowing, overcome by the honour of having them in his office, and the three of them exchanged amused glances for it seemed the possession of a little money had a magical charm for Mr Burton. By now, of course, Charlie was aware of the finding of the tin box, the contents of which generations of Abbott women had accumulated, but surely it was not enough to cause Mr Burton to bow and scrape as he was doing? Three hundred pounds was more than the majority of men in the parish saw in a lifetime but there were many wealthy farmers, industrialists and the like in Cumberland, owners of mines, and those who held shares in the new railways which brought them in more in a twelve month than the whole of Annie's savings, and which they deposited in Mr Burton's bank. So why was he so fulsome, lavish even, with his bowing and scraping?

  “Now then, Miss Abbott, to the purpose of this meeting if I may," having enquired of her health, the state of her farm, the weather and everything else connected with her which came to his mind. He had before him some documents, one of which he took up, studying it for a moment before laying it carefully on his desk again. "I have here the deeds to Upfell Farm. They are in your name and have been for the past twelve months almost, but .. . well . . . I was asked not to present you with them until . . . until now. They were purchased by a certain person who wishes to remain anonymous and . . ."

  “Reed Macauley." The name was spat out as
though it was made of bitter fruit and Mr Burton looked up sharply. "I am not at liberty to . . ."

  “Don't be ridiculous, Mr Burton. Everyone in the parish knows the farm was bought by him and . . .”

  Mr Burton held up his hand. He did not think he cared to be called ridiculous, not in his own office, and certainly not by this woman who, until today, or at least the last time he had seen Mr Macauley, had, in his opinion, been a fast hussy who was no better than she should be. His expression said so.

  “Miss Abbott, that may be so but the deeds were inscribed directly from the name of Garnett to that of Abbott. The name of Macauley was never . . ."

  “Where is he?" She could feel the anger, an anger so weighty and hard to control she knew she was in danger of it getting away from her. If it did, Mr Burton might be the one to carry the burden of it and it was really nothing to do with him. He was not at fault, poor man, he was merely the messenger who carried the news and could not be blamed for Reed Macauley's madness.

  “Where is he?" she repeated, oblivious of Phoebe, who, feeling uncomfortable from the first in this splendid room, was now ready to stand up and get back to Browhead as soon as possible. Even her own transformed appearance had lost its wonder. She hadn't the slightest notion of what was going on, only that it was making Annie so murderously angry, she seemed about to hit Mr Burton. Charlie was saying nothing, and nothing showed in his face beyond a mild interest and a cool contempt for Mr Burton and, or so it seemed to Phoebe, all he stood for.

  “Miss Abbott, I cannot divulge the whereabouts of my client. I am merely doing what he asked me to do which is to give you these deeds and to tell you that you may take up the care of your livestock . . ."

  “My livestock? None of it is mine."

  “Your name is on this document, Miss Abbott, therefore it belongs to you."

  “No." She wanted to scream and strike out at him. Of course she really wanted to strike out at Reed Macauley. To strike him hard and fatally, but since he was not here, anyone would do. The heavy outraged stone in her chest which was pressed high against her lungs, making it difficult for her to breathe, would not shift and she could feel herself fighting for air. But into her mind had come a tiny probing question which asked her why she felt so angry,so overwhelmed by the need to lash out, if only he had been here, at Reed Macauley for doing what he had always done. He had given her what he knew she wanted. Ever since he had bundled that hamper of food down the track from Long Beck to Browhead it had been the same. In any way he could, whether she agreed or not, he had provided for her, protected her, watched out for her interests, and she did want Upfell, she had let him know it, and here it was ready to fall into her lap. She had been prepared to buy it from him but he had struck her and told her to leave his house and his life and since then she had not seen him, nor heard about him except Maggie's words telling Phoebe that he had gone. Where was he? Dear God, was she never to have peace? . . . Dear God, Reed . . . would she ever know the peace of not loving him? . . . Reed . . . Reed .. .

  “I cannot accept it." Her voice was harsh. "I will not accept it."

  “Then what am I to do with it, Miss Abbott? Mr Macauley was quite adamant in his instructions and 1 cannot just leave a valuable property lying idle with no one to care for it. I have sent instructions up to Long Beck only this morning, as Mr Macauley told me, to return the livestock to ... "

  “That is nothing to do with me."

  “It is your farm, Miss Abbott, and they are your animals, therefore it seems to me that it has something to do with you. It is your responsibility."

  “NO!"

  “Miss Abbott . . ."

  “Inform Mr Macauley that he must return at once and see to them for I will not . . ."

  “I cannot do that. He has gone abroad and I cannot say when he will be back.”

  Mr Burton closed his mouth in a white line of anger, aware that he had said more than he intended, but really this splendid woman with her great dazzling eyes and heaving bosom was too much for any man to withstand. She had not deliberately gone about wheedling information out of him, as many women would, but she had got it just the same.

  The silence was deep and long and into it Charlie's voice fell quite casually.

  “There is an answer, of course.”

  Annie turned to him like a drowning sailor clutching at a piece of driftwood floating by and he wondered at the intensity of this love she had for Reed Macauley. It made her, a woman normally so practical, level-headed and thoughtful, act in a way that was none of these things. There was nothing she wanted more, he happened to know, than to run Upfell next to her own farm and yet her stubborn, illogical, proud and female mind would not allow her to accept it from a man who, it was very evident, loved her more than his own life. Reed Macauley was willing to go away, leave the life he had known since he was a boy so that she might live in peace. Or was it that he needed it, needed to get away from her, as he himself had needed to do six months ago? She was a flame, warm, bright, lovely but very lethal, a dangerous flame in which an unwary man could be consumed, as he had been, and the heat of her had burned him out, as perhaps it was burning out the essence of Reed Macauley, leaving no more than an empty husk.

  “What is it, Charlie?" Annie's voice was eager and Mr Burton found he too was on the edge of his seat.

  “You have some three hundred pounds deposited with Mr Burton's bank, have you not?"

  “Yes, I intend to start a business . . ."

  “Why do you not buy the farm instead? The business could come later."

  “Mr . . . er . . . Lucas, Miss Abbott cannot purchase what she already owns."

  “I presume Mr Macauley has an account with you, Mr Burton?"

  “Really, that is Mr Macauley's business, but . . ."

  “Surely it would be a simple matter to transfer the money from Miss Abbott's holdings to Mr Macauley's? You can put money in, I presume?""Well . . . yes . . ."

  “Then what is there to stop you? Miss Abbott will then, in effect, have bought the farm. At least she will have paid Mr Macauley three hundred pounds which ... "

  “Oh, Charlie, that is a splendid idea but I believe the price was two hundred guineas. I want Upfell Farm, of course I do, but I don't want it given to me by . . . Well, I want to feel that I have . . . Charlie, really you will know what I mean . . ."

  “I know exactly what you mean, Annie," and in his cool grey eyes there was a faint memory of the passionate love she had evoked in him once. He could no longer be stirred by that kind of emotion, he knew it now. It had been scourged out of him in the eight weeks he had hated her, been obsessed by her, suffered for her and had returned a different man; one remoulded and emptied of the masculine hungers he had once known. But in that moment as she turned to him in passionate relief he remembered how it had felt and he was very aware that Annie Abbott still suffered it.

  As they drove jubilantly back to Browhead — at least Annie was jubilant, for Phoebe kept repeating she couldn't make head nor tail of it and therefore, as yet, could see no reason for jubilation — Reed Macauley stood beside his wife, his arm supporting her weeping, fainting figure as the coffin which contained the body of her father was lowered into the ground.

  He had been about to board ship for America since he had heard there were many business opportunities to be found there and now seemed as good a time as any to go and see what they were. His affairs were all in order with men of integrity to keep them that way and his farm, efficiently run as he had designed it to be, would continue to flourish under the supervision of the factor he had employed.

  The news of his father-in-law's death could not be ignored. His wife's inheritance which, by the laws of the land, now belonged entirely to him, must be put in order, the estate settled, his father-in-law's mills organised, along with his home, his servants, his wife and his daughter. His married daughter who had spent the last two years living the life of a 'daughter at home' or that of a widow, but was, in law, the wife of Reed Macauley. />
  Those who stood about the grave exchanged furtive glances as Esmé Macauley clung to her husband in much the same way she had clung to Edmund Hamilton-Brown, whose widow was quite overlooked. Mrs Hamilton-Brown was composed, tearless, standing somewhat apart, as though the man who had been her husband had really been nothing to do with her, the right to grieve his death belonging solely to his daughter.

  The last mourner had left, the carriages following one another in an orderly line down the long gravelled driveway of Edmund's splendid house in Bradford. Reed stood, as was correct in a bereaved son-in-law, between his wife and his mother-in-law, shaking each hand which was held out to him, speaking the right words, knowing exactly what was in the curious minds of those who had come to pay their last respects to the hard-headed and ruthless businessman who had been Edmund Hamilton-Brown. There was a lot of money and how was his empty-headed daughter and his self-effacing wife to manage it without him? So was this husband of Esmé's to do it in his place? Run his mills and his home, his womenfolk, and if so were Mr and Mrs Macauley to live together again as man and wife, as, shockingly, they had not done for the past two years?

  It was in Esmé's eyes as she sat down in the chair opposite the man she had married four years ago, the look of pleading, the desperate look of an animal at bay, one that knows its fate, its very life hangs in the balance and will be decided in the next few moments.

  “I think I will go and rest, my dear," Esmé's mother murmured, smiling in a vague way at Reed as he opened the door for her, but in her eyes was an awareness of the importance of the next hour, not only to Esmé and her husband, but to herself since her own future lay in the hands of Reed Macauley.

  “May I ring for tea, Reed, or would you prefer .. . perhaps a brandy?"

  “I think brandy, Esmé, but don't trouble the servants. I will help myself.”

  A silence fell and still Esmé's eyes held that imploring expression. He smiled, gently, for she was so young.