The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘Mester Brumby’s very ill,’ Esther told her shortly and brushed past her to go into the house, but Beth caught hold of her arm. ‘Where’s Matthew? I’ve got to see Matthew.’

  ‘How should I know?’ Esther muttered. ‘I ain’t seen him for days. Just when I could use a bit of help, Mester Matthew decides to do one of his disappearing acts!’

  ‘I thought – he was here – with you.’ The statement was an accusation.

  ‘Well, he ain’t.’ Esther twisted her arm impatiently to release Beth’s grasp and added, with a touch of the malice that Beth had used towards her on occasion, ‘Mebbe he’s chasing a bit o’ skirt on one of the other farms.’

  The girl turned white and swayed slightly. She put out her hand to steady herself against the wall. With her other hand she clutched at her shawl, pulling it closely around her.

  Esther gave her a click of exasperation. Beth’s possessive behaviour over Matthew irritated her, and besides she had enough on her mind over poor Sam. She went inside and slammed the door behind her – right in Beth’s face.

  Ten

  MR Thompson, the lawyer, arrived promptly at eleven the next morning. He was a thin-faced, balding gentleman in a pin-striped suit. The broad, stiff white collar seemed too big for his thin neck. His eyes were large behind the thick lenses of his steel-rimmed spectacles, which seemed to be forever slipping down his long, thin nose.

  He was closeted with Sam in the front parlour for an hour and a half, at the end of which time he came out into the yard to find Esther talking to Will Benson, who had driven in.

  ‘Come here,’ he beckoned her with a long bony finger. ‘Would you be kind enough to ask Mr Benson to step into the house for a moment.’

  Will followed the lawyer into the house, whilst Esther waited outside in the yard, stroking Will’s horses and watching the back door. Will was not required for many minutes for he appeared again almost immediately and climbed up on to his cart.

  ‘Good day, lass. I’ll see you later in the week.’ He turned his cart around and rattled out of the yard.

  ‘Will . . .?’ Esther called, but he did not seem to hear her shout above the noise of the cart’s wheels.

  A few moments later, the lawyer too came out of the house, unhitched his pony and climbed into his trap. Touching his hat in a very gallant way to the young girl still standing uncertainly in the middle of the yard, he too turned his conveyance around and left the farm.

  Esther watched the cart and the trap disappearing down the lane. Then she turned and went slowly back into the house.

  That night it took Esther half an hour to help Sam up the steep stairs to his bedroom and the next day he did not even try to get up out of his bed.

  A worried frown creasing her forehead, Esther went out into the pale morning to cope with the milking. She felt more weary than she could ever remember feeling in her young life. Hard work, whatever the weather, had never exhausted her as caring for Sam was doing. Each night she slept restlessly, waking every hour or so to listen to his rasping, painful breathing. Several times a night she would drag herself from her warm bed and, bare-footed, pad across the wooden floors to his room. There was little she could do to ease his suffering, except raise him up on his pillows and give him a drink. Some nights when he seemed even worse, she would go down to the kitchen and heat up some broth on the glowing embers of the range. He scarcely managed more than a spoonful or two and it seemed a waste of time, yet she had to try.

  He was so cold that each night she heated three bricks in the range oven, wrapped them in thick, woollen rags and placed one either side of him in the bed and one at his feet.

  Now, this morning, he was weaker than ever.

  She leant her head against Clover’s warm stomach and closed her eyes. The cow, somehow sensing Esther’s distress, stood patiently waiting for her udders to be emptied.

  ‘You sleeping on the job?’

  She jumped at the sound of Matthew’s teasing voice and, lifting her head, saw his shadowy form in the half-light of the cowshed. Bringing her head up sharply, she snapped back an answer. She was in no mood for his horseplay this morning. ‘An’ if I am, it’s no thanks to you. Up half the night with poor old Sam and all the work to do on the farm. Where’ve you been? Just when I could use a bit of help, you disappear for days on end!’

  Matthew moved forward and now, Esther had to admit, there was genuine concern in his tone. ‘Is he worse?’

  The anger went out of her as swiftly as it had come. Her voice breaking slightly, she told him, ‘He’s much worse. He – he had the lawyer here yesterday . . .’

  ‘Oh, Lord!’

  ‘. . . and today he dun’t seem to have the energy to try and get out of his bed. Would you go for the doctor, Matthew?’

  ‘Of course, I’ll go right now.’ He made as if to leave and then, turning back briefly, he added, ‘And from tonight, I’ll stay here with you and give you a hand with him.’

  Esther opened her mouth to protest, but Matthew had gone.

  The doctor was sorry but there was nothing he could do. I’ll leave you this,’ he added, handing her a bottle of liquid. ‘It may just help him to rest a little at night. Are you sure you can manage, my dear? You’re looking exhausted. I could remove him to the cottage hospital, but I very much doubt he would survive the journey into the town . . .’

  Esther shook her head vehemently. ‘No – no. I dun’t want that. I’ll manage . . .’

  Matthew stepped forward to stand beside her. ‘We’ll manage, doctor. I’ll be staying here now to help Esther.’

  Esther saw the doctor glance from one to the other, her own doubts mirrored in his face. ‘Well now, I don’t quite know if that would – well – be quite right. Isn’t there someone – some woman – who could come and help out?’

  ‘If you’re thinking of the gossips, doctor, dun’t worry. Esther’s not one to let their wagging tongues bother her,’ Matthew said. For a moment, despite the seriousness of their situation, his cheeky grin was back. ‘An’ as for keepin’ me in me place, well, she’s a dab hand at that, an’ all!’

  The doctor glanced back at Esther and she, seeing that he was still not convinced of the rightness of leaving two young people alone in the farmhouse together, gave him a brief nod. ‘We’ll be all right, thank you, Doctor Blair. ’Tis Sam we’ve to worry about.’

  Doctor Blair sighed heavily. ‘I’m sad to say you’re right there, my dear.’ He turned away and went out to his gig. ‘I’ll call again in a day or two, but don’t hesitate to send for me if you need me.’

  As the gig clattered out of the farmyard, Matthew said, ‘Who’s paying for all these doctor’s visits, Esther? The likes of us dun’t have doctors – not unless we’re dying.’

  Esther faced Matthew and said quietly, ‘Sam is dying, Matthew.’

  He stared at her for a moment and then dropped his gaze to look at the ground and shuffle his feet. For once, Esther felt a moment’s sympathy for the young man’s awkwardness, so she added briskly, ‘Besides, I’ll see the doctor’s paid when the harvest money comes in. Now, let’s get back to Sam.’

  That night Matthew filled four sacks with straw to form a makeshift bed for himself on the floor in the old nursery between Sam’s room and the little room where Esther now slept. ‘It’s no good me sleeping out in the hayloft, or in that little boxroom you had. I’m no use to you out there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘I’ll never hear if you need help, or if Sam gets worse.’

  ‘Oh – oh, er, yes.’ Esther turned away but not before she had caught Matthew’s grin, and realized that he knew exactly what had been in her mind.

  Esther lay in her own bed, every nerve tensed. Any moment she expected to hear the latch raised and Matthew creeping into her room.

  He’s not stayed here to look after Sam, she fretted to herself, he just wants the chance to climb into my bed and he reckons this is a good excuse to worm his way into the house. She lay
there in the darkness, listening. Now that her bedroom door was shut against Matthew, she could no longer hear Sam’s laboured breathing. Yet this was worse, she told herself. Now she dare not go to sleep!

  But for once Esther was wrong. After some time, she heard Matthew’s gentle snoring, and only then did she allow herself to close her eyes and rest.

  So they fell into some sort of routine. Matthew rarely helped directly with Sam but he took on most of the farm work, leaving Esther to devote nearly all her time to the old man. Once her initial suspicions as to Matthew’s motives had been allayed, she found she was pleased to have him there.

  She did not feel quite so alone in the face of death.

  When the Sunday of Harvest Festival came, Esther walked the two miles alone to give thanks at the little church as Sam had done all his life. She sat alone in Sam’s pew, but as she left the church she found herself being questioned on all sides as to how Sam fared.

  ‘If there’s owt you want, lass,’ Tom Willoughby boomed, deliberately ignoring the pursed lips of his wife and her sister, ‘you just let me know.’

  ‘I’ll call and see him,’ the vicar promised, and though she nodded agreement, Esther was a little doubtful as to how Sam would view such a visit.

  At the church gate she found Beth waiting for her. Her annoyance was tempered by the fact that the girl looked ill. Her face was pinched and although the autumn evening was not cold, she was huddled into her thick winter shawl making her girlish body shapeless. Despite the thick clothing, she still appeared to be shivering.

  ‘He’s with you, ain’t he?’ Beth accused Esther.

  There was no point in pretending that she did not understand, so Esther merely replied shortly, ‘Matthew’s staying to help look after Sam.’

  She was surprised to see tears in the girl’s eyes. ‘I don’t believe you. You think you’ve got him, don’t you?’

  ‘I keep telling you, I dun’t want him – not that way. But I need his help. I can’t manage Sam and the farm on me own.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Beth whispered again.

  Esther shrugged and turned away. ‘Believe what you like, then.’

  ‘Esther . . .’ Beth cried after her. ‘Please – I must see him. Please tell him.’

  Esther did not look back or even acknowledge that she had heard the girl’s desperate plea, but as she walked along the road from the church, she could almost feel Beth’s eyes watching her every step of the way.

  Back at the farm, she hurried straight up to Sam’s room.

  ‘They all asked about you, Sam,’ she told him. ‘The parson and the squire. They all sent their regards and wish you well.’

  Sam lay in his narrow bed with his eyes closed. It was as if, being unable to go to the church himself, he had given up. He refused all food, and would take only sips of water.

  ‘Parson said he’ll come and see you,’ she added slyly, hoping that such news would spark some sort of reaction.

  But Sam’s eyes remained shut and his expression did not alter. Sadly, Esther doubted if he had even understood what she was telling him. His face was like a skull, the skin stretched like dry parchment over the bones. All the ruddy good health of a life working in the open air had gone in the last few weeks. He lay there with his eyes closed, every breath a shuddering, rasping sound, his fingers clutching at the quilt covering him.

  ‘Do you feel worse, Sam?’ Esther asked gently, bending down towards him.

  There was no answer.

  The next morning Esther sent Matthew to fetch the doctor again. ‘He’s much worse now than when Doctor Blair last saw him.’

  Matthew just nodded and muttered, ‘I’ll go right away.’

  It was only when Matthew had disappeared around the bend in the road that Esther realized she had not even thought to tell him that Beth wanted to see him.

  Only two nights later, Esther was startled out of her sleep by the sound of the latch of her bedroom door being lifted. At once she was fully awake, lying stiffly, holding her breath.

  In the early morning light, Matthew’s shadowy form came towards her narrow bed. Ducking his head below the slope of the ceiling, he grasped at the counterpane near her shoulder. She gave a little cry and pulled the cover from his grip. ‘Dun’t you dare, Mester Matthew . . .’

  ‘Oh, you’re awake. You’d better come. I – I can’t hear Sam breathing.’

  ‘What?’ She sat up suddenly, forgetting the nearness of the ceiling and gave her head a nasty crack.

  Fearful of what they were to find, the two young people clung together as they crept through the room Matthew now occupied, across the tiny landing and lifted the latch of Sam’s bedroom door.

  They found him still warm, yet motionless and silent for ever. He must have died quite peacefully for the covers were unruffled and his hands were folded across his chest, just as he had gone to sleep.

  With the dawn, Matthew set off to fetch Doctor Blair to come to Sam Brumby for the last time.

  ‘I’ll see the undertaker for you, my dear,’ the kindly doctor told Esther as he left the farm later that morning. ‘Get Matthew to ask Mrs Harris to come and lay him out.’

  Esther nodded, not trusting herself to speak for the lump in her throat. She felt suddenly bereft and very much alone again. She had begun to feel secure and had dared to be happy. Sam had given her a home and had shown her a gruff affection.

  Now he was gone.

  Sadly, she wandered from room to room downstairs, conscious all the time of poor Sam still lying upstairs and that there was nothing more she could do for him. What would happen to all his family possessions now? she thought. Would his things be auctioned off with people prying and poking amongst his treasured memories? She opened the door into the front parlour – a room she had rarely entered and hadn’t even liked to clean properly. She moved around the room touching the furniture, the ornaments and pictures until she came to the family Bible lying on a small round table under the window. Now, with reverent fingers, she opened the book.

  Written on the first blank page was a list of the births, deaths and marriages of the Brumby family.

  Esther read the entries and learnt that the first Brumby to farm here had been Sam’s grandfather, Joseph. One entry stated that he had been granted the tenancy in 1807. The entry of Joseph’s death was in different handwriting, as if the next generation had taken over the duty of recording the history of the family. There was one entry that particularly intrigued her.

  ‘William Joseph Brumby married Sarah Willoughby 27th May 1833.’ Her finger moved up and down the page working out the relationships. William and Sarah were Sam’s parents. So, she thought, perhaps Sam was some relation to Tom Willoughby.

  The next entry was Sam’s birth – ‘Samuel Joseph Brumby born on 24th August 1833.’

  Esther allowed herself a wry smile. There was less than nine months between his parents’ marriage and his birth. She closed the Bible and turned away, feeling a little guilty for prying into Sam’s secrets. But his parents had married and Sam had been born in wedlock, even if only just! Not like mine, she thought bitterly.

  Esther sighed deeply. No doubt she’d soon have to leave Brumbys’ Farm. But where could she go? No one wanted her.

  Tears prickled behind her eyes and the lump in her throat seemed to grow bigger.

  Eleven

  MA Harris came mid-morning. ‘Now then, lass.’ she said to Esther. ‘’Tis all over with the poor old man, then. Aye well, he’s been poorly for a while, ain’t he?’

  ‘Do – do you want any – help?’ Esther asked, not without reluctance. Normally she would tackle anything, but the thought of helping to lay out Sam Brumby made her spine shiver.

  ‘Nay, I’ll manage. He were no ’but skin and bone towards the end. You get on with yar work. I ‘spect you’ve a lot to do with the funeral, an’ all. By, lass, but you’ve kept this place going, I’ve got to hand it to ya . . .’ and still chattering, Ma Harris heaved her stout frame up the narrow st
airs. Esther stood at the bottom and watched Mrs Harris turn into Sam’s room and close the door.

  So it was late afternoon by the time Esther had finished everything about the farm and had washed under the pump in the yard, changed into her Sunday best frock and pinned up her hair.

  When she came down the stairs she found Matthew lingering in the kitchen, warming his hands before the glowing fire in the range. The wood fell and sent a shower of sparks up the flue.

  ‘Thought you’d gone home,’ she said abruptly.

  He turned slowly and grinned cheekily at her. ‘Now – why would I be wanting to do that, Esther?’

  ‘Well, there’s no need for you to stay any longer – not now.’ Even to her own ears, her tone sounded more brusque than she had intended.

  The smile faded from Matthew’s mouth and his eyes glinted in the dancing firelight. ‘Oh – dismissed, am I? Just like that, eh?’

  Esther gave a click of exasperation. ‘Oh, don’t be so touchy, Matthew. I’ve been grateful for yar help, ya should know that.’

  He turned away from the fire and moved slowly towards her, almost with a touch of menace. ‘No, I dun’t know. Perhaps you’d better show me just how grateful . . .’

  She put out her hands, palms outward, to fend him off. ‘Now, dun’t you start that, Matthew Hilton.’

  He stopped and regarded her insolently, then said, feigning innocence, ‘Start what, Esther? Whatever can you be meaning?’

  Esther turned quickly away from him, exasperated. ‘Oh, really!’ she muttered. Reaching her shawl from the peg, she dragged open the door and was through it and gone before he could say – or do – any more.

  The easterly wind whipped across the fields as Esther took the path inland towards the Grange. She stopped to pull her shawl more closely about her as the wind caught at her skirt and tossed her curls. A small smile of satisfaction curved her mouth as she looked around her. Autumn had been gentle and the ploughing was going well, despite her time being taken up with caring for the old man. She smiled ruefully to herself. She did indeed owe Matthew a debt of gratitude, for without him she certainly would not have kept up the farm work so well. Her smile widened. But it wouldn’t do to tell him so, she thought. Matthew Hilton was quite full enough already of his own importance!