Esther was not to attend church again until Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, but her first visit was not soon forgotten. The very next day when she saw Matthew, she demanded, ‘Who was the man sitting on the other side of your girl?’
‘Beth’s not my girl,’ came his swift reply.
‘She seems to think so.’
‘Well, she ain’t,’ he muttered and then he grinned. ‘You jealous?’
Esther tossed her curls. ‘I can do better for mesen than the likes of you, Matthew Hilton.’
‘Oh, Miss High an’ Mighty, chance’d be a fine thing . . .’
‘I asked you who that feller was.’
‘Well, you’ve no chance there, I can tell you. He’s eyes for no one but Beth, even though he’s years older.’
Esther blinked at Matthew. ‘Really? But who is he? I thought he were her father.’
‘No – Beth’s dad never sets foot in a church – not as long as I’ve known him, an’ that’s all me life. No – the feller you mean is Robert Eland.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, remembering suddenly what Matthew had told her previously, ‘he lives in that boat stuck up on the river bank, dun’t he?’
Matthew nodded. ‘He’s a seaman at heart and dun’t really want to live on the land.’ He grinned. ‘I reckon he tries to get as near to living at sea as he can.’
‘Who was the portly gent and the thin woman with him?’
‘That’s Squire Marshall. He lives at the Grange.’
Esther nodded. She hadn’t been required to help out at harvest on the squire’s farm. He would employ enough of his own workers, she supposed.
There was silence between them, then Matthew asked, ‘Dun’t you want to know who everyone else was in church? How about the two women who . . . ?’
‘I dun’t wish to know who they were, thank you very much!’ Esther replied.
‘The fat ones Martha Willoughby and the thin ones her sister, Flo.’
Rather than display any interest in them, she refused to listen to Matthew any more, picked up two heavy buckets of milk and disappeared into the pantry.
There were others too who would not forget Esther’s first visit to the church and two in particular who had no wish to see her there again.
Three days after that first Sunday, a pony and trap bowled along the lane from Rookery Farm, turning sharp right at the junction with the lane running alongside the sand dunes and came to a stop outside Brumbys’ Farm. Hearing the rattle of wheels and the horses hooves, Sam came out from the barn and Esther peeped out of Curly’s pigsty, which she was cleaning out.
The two ladies from the church were climbing gingerly down from their trap and coming towards Sam, marching side by side as if confronting the enemy.
‘Sam Brumby – Flo and I would like a word with you, if you please,’ began Martha Willoughby, taking the lead.
Esther watched the scowl on Sam’s face deepen but he said nothing.
‘It’s about that young girl you have – er – living with you,’ put in Miss Flo, but she took care to stand slightly behind her more formidable sister.
‘You see, Sam,’ continued Mrs Willoughby, ‘Flo and I – we don’t consider it seemly for a young girl – and one of doubtful character and morals – to be living out here alone with you. I mean – did you know what she said to Tom about – about . . .’ The woman wafted her hand before her face as if it ill became her to speak of such an indelicate matter. ‘. . . the boar?’
Flo nodded in dutiful agreement. It’s all over the town, Sam, just think.’
Esther had heard enough. She came out of the sty and slammed the door behind her. Two pairs of startled eyes turned towards her as she crossed the yard, her green gaze spitting fire, her determined chin thrust forward, the pitchfork she still held in her hands pointing aggressively towards them like a fixed bayonet. Miss Flo gave a terrified shriek and clung to her sister.
Sam put up his hand warningly, as if to fend her off. ‘Easy, wench,’ he murmured. ‘They’re naught but a couple of busybodies . . .’
‘I’ll not be called such names, mester. Not by them nor anyone else. I may be poor, an’ I may look like a tramp, but I ain’t one, an’ no one has the right to . . .’ Esther jabbed the fork towards them, and Miss Flo began to wail and even the bolder Mrs Willoughby took hold of her sister and stepped backwards. Esther thrust the pitchfork towards them again, so that the two women jerked away. Mrs Willoughby stumbled and fell heavily, dragging her sister down with her.
‘I work for Mr Brumby on the farm and nothing else. You hear me, missus, nothing else.’
She emphasized her statement by prodding the fork ever nearer to the two quivering women on the ground. For a long moment she glared down at them and then, as if satisfied, she lifted the fork away and stood back a pace. The two women, seizing their chance, scrambled up, clinging to each other. Tripping over their long skirts, they scuttled towards and trap. As they went, Esther’s anger was turned to laughter. Planted neatly on Martha Willoughby’s fat bottom was the perfect brown circle of a cow-pat.
Esther heard Sam’s wheezing and she looked sideways at him. He was bending slightly forward, his hands resting on his knees, his head tilted up to watch the two women laughing until the ears came into his eye.
‘Ayel, wench,’ he splutterd, ‘you’ll be the death o’ me!’
Seven
‘YOU coming to the Supper tonight, Esther?’ Matthew was grinning at her over the half-door of the cowshed.
Without pausing in her milking, her voice muffled against the beast’s stomach, Esther asked, ‘Supper? What Supper?’
‘Harvest Supper, of course. Ain’t Sam told you about it?’
‘No.’
‘It’s at the Grange. Squire holds a Harvest Supper for all the folks around here. Anyone can go – an’ they do. It’s a grand night. Aw, do come, Esther. Come with me, if you’re frit to go on your own.’
She finished milking Clover and stood up, giving the cow a last gentle pat on her rump. ‘Good girl, there now, there’s a good girl. We’ll have to stop milking you soon, shan’t we? Ya’ll be calving in a few weeks.’
The cow swished her tail but her kicking feet stayed still at Esther’s pacifying tone.
Now Esther faced Matthew. ‘I ain’t frit to go nowhere on me own, Matthew Hilton.’
‘Aw, don’t take the huff, Esther. I only meant – well – I meant I’d like you to come with me. There’s still a lot of people round here you don’t know an’ . . .’
‘Aye, and some as I’d rather not know an’ all, judging by them two old biddies in church last week,’ she countered.
Matthew grinned. ‘I ’eard about ’em coming here. But you sent ’em packing by all accounts.’
Esther smiled at the memory and found Matthew staring at her.
‘My, but you’re bonny when you smile,’ he said softly and his eyes darkened with desire as he stepped towards her.
‘Oh, go on with you.’ She pushed him away from her, laughing as she added, ‘I’ll think about the Harvest Supper. Now go away, I’ve work to do.’
Grinning, Matthew went.
‘Mester,’ she ventured to Sam at tea time. ‘What’s this Harvest Supper Matthew’s been on about? Do you go?’
Sam sniffed. ‘I s’pose I’ll have to. I don’t reckon much to it, but I don’t like to snub the squire. Why d’you ask? You going?’
She shrugged and looked down at her rough work-worn skirt and faded blouse. ‘I – I dunno.’
Sam sniffed again. There was a long silence between them. He got up from the table and settled himself in his straight-backed Windsor chair by the range. He reached for his clay pipe on the mantelpiece and began to pack it slowly. Without looking at her, he said, haltingly, ‘In that room where you sleep . . .’
Esther looked at him.
‘. . . there’s a trunk of – old clothes. They – they belonged to – to someone – a long time ago. If – if there’s owt you can wear, you can have ’em,’
he finished in a rush.
Her green eyes were shining. ‘Aw, thanks, Mester Brumby, thanks ever so.’
Sam sniffed, settled his aching bones in his chair and puffed at his pipe.
On the night of the Harvest Supper, Sam Brumby was waiting for her in the kitchen when she climbed down the ladder and stood before him in her finery. She had found a cotton print dress, patterned with blue cornflowers. Its skirt was a little too full to be fashionable and the sleeves too narrow. But, ignoring the fusty smell of material which had been packed away in a trunk for years, she had put it on, pinned up her freshly washed hair with some ivory combs she had found in the bottom of the trunk and arranged her curls to fall over her forehead. She felt like a princess.
Sam was staring at her. His eyes misted over as if he were seeing not her but someone else standing before him. Perhaps he was remembering the person to whom this dress had once belonged. For a fleeting moment, Esther felt awkward. Then Sam brushed his hand across his face, sniffed and said gruffly. ‘You look bonny, wench. Come on, we’d best be off.’
The autumn evening was soft and balmy under a clear starlit sky and merry laughter filled the night air as they approached Grange Farm. Lanterns had been festooned all around the edges of the barn which the squire left free for the Harvest Supper. Long trestle tables had been placed down the middle with squares of hay for the revellers to sit on. The tables were piled high with food and when Esther arrived with Sam, people were already helping themselves. There were hams and pickled tongues, pork pies and sausages and for dessert, junkets and cream cheese soufflés. Esther’s mouth watered.
Matthew appeared suddenly at her side. ‘Come on, Esther, let’s get stuck in or it’ll all be gone.’
She took a plate and, following his example, piled it high with food. She reached across the table to pick up a cooked sausage when her fingers touched someone else’s reaching from the opposite side. She looked up to find herself staring into Beth Hanley’s resentful eyes.
‘You with Matthew?’ Beth asked bluntly.
Esther straightened up. ‘Well – sort of. Why?’
There was hurt in Beth’s dark brown eyes. ‘Dun’t you know we’re walking out together?’
‘No – no, I didn’t. I’m sorry – if he’d said then . . .’
Beth snorted. ‘Oh, him, he likes to think he’s fancy free. He’ll flirt with anything in skirts. I knows that.’
‘An’ doesn’t it bother you?’
She didn’t answer directly, but stared Esther straight in the face and said, ‘He’ll come back to me and I’ll be waiting for him. You mark my words, Esther Everatt, he’ll always come back to me!’
For some inexplicable reason the vehement certainty in Beth’s tone sent a shiver down Esther’s back.
The dark-haired girl turned away and was lost in the throng of people. Esther too turned away from the table and drew breath sharply for she found herself staring into the disapproving faces of Mrs Willoughby and her sister.
‘Well, really!’ was all Flo could muster.
‘And what, may I ask, are you doing here?’ demanded Martha Willoughby.
Esther recovered her senses and smiled brightly. ‘Good evening, missus,’ she addressed Martha Willoughby. ‘And, er . . .’ she hesitated and then deliberately her gaze searched the left hand of the thin woman, whom she now knew to be Martha Willoughby’s sister. Seeing her ringless finger, she added with emphasis, ‘And miss.’
Miss Flo gasped. The edge of sarcasm towards her spinster state was not lost on the middle-aged woman.
‘Oh, Martha, come away. I won’t be seen talking to this – this creature!’
‘Quite right, Flo dear. Really, I don’t know what the squire is thinking of.’
They picked up their skirts and with one last glance made as if to turn away in a calculated snub. But in that last glance, Flo had looked Esther up and down properly. She gasped and gripped her sister’s arm.
‘Oh, Martha,’ she squeaked. ‘Do – do you see what she’s wearing? Oh, how could he? How could Sam let her wear one of poor, darling Katharine’s gowns?’ Flo fished in the sleeve of her blouse for a delicate lace handkerchief and held it to her lips, her eyes wide and staring above the frothy white lace. Martha was made of sterner stuff. She merely eyed the old-fashioned gown with distaste.
‘It’s absolutely . . .’ But exactly what, Esther was not to hear for at that moment Tom Willoughby came up behind them and put an arm about the shoulders of the two sisters. ‘Now, now, my dears, making friends. That’s the way,’ and he gave a great bellowing laugh so that his stomach wobbled and his whiskers shook.
‘Oh, really, Thomas. Friends, indeed!’ The two women turned away in disgust, but before he followed them, Tom gave Esther a broad grin and an exaggerated wink. ‘They’ll come around, m’dear, don’t you worry.’
Esther stared after the three of them as they walked away. She wasn’t bothered one way or the other whether they ever ‘came around’, but she was intrigued by something Flo had said.
Just who was Katharine?
Thoughtfully, Esther took her plate and sat down in a corner of the barn.
‘There you are,’ Matthew said and sat down beside her. ‘This is good, ain’t it, Esther?’ he said, his mouth stuffed with food.
‘Mmm,’ she murmured.
‘There’s dancing later. Old Joe usually brings his fiddle and plays for us.’
‘Dancing,’ Esther was startled into replying. ‘I can’t dance!’
‘I’ll show you,’ Matthew said loftily. ‘There’s nothing to it.’
He was indeed right. There was nothing to it – at least not the way these happy folk danced, for no one cared that they all just hopped and jigged about in time to the music. There seemed to be no organized dance steps of any kind. But, Esther had to admit, they all certainly enjoyed themselves. Even Beth was dancing and laughing and seemed to have forgotten her rancour for the moment.
‘Oh, stop, Matthew, do stop. I’m puffed. I can’t dance another step,’ Esther gasped. ‘Really, I can’t. Oooh, I’ve got a stitch in me side.’
Matthew laughed. He was by now none too steady on his feet, for he had been partaking liberally of the ale set aside at the far end of the barn. He pulled her away from the other dancers and with his arm about her waist, led her out of the barn and away from the light. Behind them the music and laughter continued but around them now was the black stillness of the night. He pulled her round a corner and towards a straw stack looming in the darkness.
‘Oh, just let me sit down. Me feet are fair aching.’ Esther giggled and fell into the straw. Matthew stumbled and fell on top of her and in a moment they were rolling and shrieking about in the straw. Then suddenly he was on top of her, his mouth finding hers as he kissed her roughly and his hand was tugging at her skirt. Then she felt his hand hot upon her thigh and felt his fingers working frantically upwards, upwards . . .
She struggled. ‘Stop it, Matthew. I won’t—’
‘Aw, come on, Esther. You’d like it. I know you would. You’re ripe as a plum . . .’
‘No!’ she almost shouted, and then she heard an ominous tearing sound near her shoulder as the fragile material of her dress tore.
Her sudden anger giving her extra strength, Esther shoved him off her and tried to scramble up. The straw caught at her skirt and hampered her escape, so that he caught her by the legs and tackled her to the ground once more. Now she was fighting him in earnest, fighting for her purity.
‘Not ’til I’m wed,’ she panted. ‘I won’t.’
Suddenly he stopped and rolled away from her. ‘Huh, you’re a prude, Esther Everatt. You’ll die an old maid and never know what it was like.’
Finding herself free, she struggled to her feet and moved a little way away from him. Then she turned and with a parting flourish shouted, ‘I’d rather that than bring your bastard into the world, Matthew Hilton!’
She turned and fled back to the safety of the throng of dancers. S
he found herself a drink and sat in a corner. She was hot and dishevelled, but hoped that everyone was too busy enjoying themselves to notice.
She felt at the back of her shoulder. The tear didn’t seem too bad. She had been thrilled to find the dress and had so looked forward to this evening, but now, what with the contempt of Mrs Willoughby and Miss Flo, Beth’s angry eyes, and now Matthew’s drunken attempt on her virtue – her pleasure was spoilt. She sighed heavily. His behaviour had soured what she had thought had been a friendship. She had liked being with him, quite enjoyed his harmless flirting if she were honest. But no more than that, she vowed to herself, not until I’m married.
Beth Hanley was standing over her. ‘Matthew tried his tricks on you, then?’
Esther looked up. ‘He tried, but he got nowhere,’ she said tartly.
Beth seemed to reflect for a moment as if unable to decide whether or not she believed Esther’s claim. ‘Funny, he’s not one to give up.’
Esther looked up and then slowly rose to her feet to meet Beth’s gaze on a level. ‘You don’t mean you let him . . . ?’
Beth shrugged. ‘Why not? ’Tis natural.’
Esther’s lips curled, and she saw anger spark in Beth’s eyes.
‘Think you’re too good for the rest of us, do you, Esther? Matthew not good enough for you, eh?’
Esther shook her head. ‘That don’t come into it, Beth,’ she said quietly, but with candour. ‘I – I always vowed I’d be a virgin when I married – that’s all.’
The Fleethaven Trilogy Page 6