The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  The smile faded and she sighed heavily. Everything could be very different from now on. What was going to happen to her now that Sam was gone?

  At the Grange, the huge front door was opened smoothly by a tall, thin man dressed in a black suit. His mouth curved downward as if he had a bad smell under his nose. He looked down upon Esther and as she made to enter the house, the man deliberately barred her way. ‘I don’t think you can have business in this establishment, girl.’

  Esther squared her shoulders. ‘I am here to see Mr Marshall.’

  She waited in vain for any kind of apology from the man, whose expression did not alter. ‘I see, and have you an appointment?’ He enunciated every word with clipped precision – and with an edge of sarcasm as if deriding the country dialect that was always so strong in her tones.

  Esther stood her ground, refusing to be intimidated by him. ‘Not exactly,’ she said calmly, meeting his cold eyes steadfastly. ‘I have come to inform the squire of the death of Mr Brumby.’

  The manservant had the grace to look ashamed. But when he left her alone in the hall whilst he went in search of his master, some of Esther’s confidence deserted her. She waited nervously, standing first on one foot and then on the other, twisting her fingers together agitatedly as her gaze roamed over the lofty hallway and the elegant sweeping staircase above which hung numerous ancestral pictures of serious-looking men and elegant women. In their company, even in her Sunday best dress, Esther felt like a tramp. The butler emerged from a door to the left of the hallway and beckoned her imperatively. Esther crossed the hall, her boots squeaking on the polished floor. She saw the butlers look of disgust, but the man stood aside for her to enter and as the door closed softly behind her, Esther found herself standing in a book-lined room. In the centre of the room stood a huge mahogany desk, inlaid with a red leather top. The smell of rich tobacco smoke hung in the air. It was undoubtedly a man’s room. For a moment Esther thought she was alone, then from a leather wing chair near the fire, Mr Marshall rose and turned to greet her.

  ‘Now, my dear, what is it?’

  ‘I thought I ought to come and tell you, sir. Mr Brumby died this morning.’

  ‘Oh dear. Oh dear me. I am sorry.’ Mr Marshall sat down again. ‘Come and sit down, my dear girl.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Esther sat tensely on the edge of the chair set on the opposite side of the fireplace to Mr Marshall.

  ‘You’ll let me know when old Sam’s funeral is to be, won’t you? I shall attend. As I told you, that farm has been in his family for several generations.’

  Esther nodded.

  ‘Is everything all right on the farm? Do you need any help until I can get things sorted out?’

  Esther bit her lip. She desperately wanted to ask him what was to happen to the farm – what was to happen to her. Huskily, she said, ‘I’ve kept things going, all the time he’s been ill . . .’

  ‘I know you have, my dear, you have done remarkably well. I admire the way you’ve coped.’

  Esther opened her mouth, trying to form the right words, but Mr Marshall was standing now and she found herself on her feet and being ushered towards the door.

  Mr Marshall gave her shoulder a comforting pat and repeated his offer of help should she need it. Before she had time to say any more she was being shown out of the front door by the butler and the moment was lost.

  She walked back along the lane towards Brumbys’ Farm, but at the gate she paused and looked up at the shadow of the farmhouse, still and silent in the dusk. Not wanting to go back into the empty house yet, she turned and climbed the bank bordering the lane. Across the marsh, jumping the meandering streams, she climbed the far dunes and came to the beach. She walked out to the very end of the Spit where the sea and the land and the sky all seemed to meet. She sat down on the damp ground, the wind whipping around her. She could taste the salt on her lips. It was lonely and desolate out here, yet she was not afraid. Her eyes scanned the darkening sea and, half turning, her gaze took in the flat land behind her.

  She gave a deep sigh of sadness. She felt as if the niche she had deliberately carved for herself in this place had been taken away from her. He had been a strange man, Sam Brumby, yet already she was missing him. She remembered everything that had happened since the morning she had arrived; Sam’s initial rejection of her, then gradually his grudging acceptance and finally his need of her. For the first time in her life she had known real happiness living at Brumbys’ Farm. She hoped she had repaid Sam by caring for him until the end.

  Poor Sam, she thought, poor Sam.

  ‘What happened?’ Matthew demanded, as, back in her working clothes, Esther led the cows out of the byre after evening milking. ‘Did Squire say what was going to happen to the farm?’

  ‘No,’ Esther snapped. Her moments of reverie out on the Spit were gone. There was work to be done, a funeral to organize. She did not pause in her vigorous sweeping of the cowshed. ‘Tek them cows back to the field, will ya?’

  ‘Did he say he would come to the funeral?’ Matthew persisted, ignoring her command.

  ‘Yes.’ She stopped her sweeping and said briskly, ‘Talking of the funeral, I’d best get baking.’ She banged the door of the cowshed shut and walked towards the house.

  ‘There’ll be a few come, I reckon,’ Matthew said following her. ‘Old Sam Brumby was a funny old boy, but folks respected him. There’ll be Mr Marshall an’ his bailiff for a start . . .’ On his fingers he ticked off the people he thought would attend Sam’s funeral. Esther would be responsible for offering refreshment to them all. It was customary for a spread to be put on at the house following the interment, even if it was over two miles back to the farm from the church. The vicar will probably come; all the folks who live at the Point, Tom Willoughby, of course, and Will, the carrier.’ There was a pause, then Matthew said, ‘What’s up with you, Esther? You’re not listening to a word I’m saying.’

  ‘Everything will be ready.’ she said, ‘dun’t you worry. You just see to them cows.’

  ‘Huh, I was only trying to ’elp,’ Matthew muttered and stomped off.

  Late that night as she climbed the stairs, her limbs heavy with weariness, she paused outside the closed door of Sam’s bedroom, her hand hovering towards the latch. Then she let it fall. Best not go in, she told herself, I shan’t sleep if I look at him again. The funeral people would be here tomorrow to put him in a coffin in the front room. It wouldn’t be so bad then. But she didn’t like to think of him still lying in his bed, cold and silent – and so close. Holding her breath, she scuttled through the neighbouring room where Matthew had slept, not daring to peer into the dark corners. Only when she was in her own small bedroom and leaning against the closed door behind her, did she breathe easily.

  She almost wished she had agreed to Matthew staying another night or two.

  Whatever’s the matter with you, Esther Everatt? she asked herself fiercely. You’re not usually so squeamish. But she had not had to deal with death before. It was not so easy to be rational and strong-minded alone in the darkness of the night with Sam’s corpse in the nearby room.

  For a long time she lay in her bed listening to every sound; the wind whistling around the farmhouse and the old timbers creaking. She was just on the point of falling asleep when the click of the latch on her bedroom door startled her into wakefulness. She lay there breathing hard, her heart pounding, her scalp prickling with fear. Someone stepped into the room, closed the door behind them and began to move towards the bed.

  Esther screamed – a loud, shrill noise piercing the blackness. The intruder fell against the end of her bed and she felt strong hands grasping at her legs kicking under the covers. ‘Esther, Esther – it’s only me.’

  She stopped screaming, panting hard. Now she was angry.

  ‘Matthew! How dare you? What—’

  ‘Esther – please. I thought I’d stay another night or two – just till after the funeral. You dun’t want to be here on your own, do you?’


  ‘Well . . .’ she said, a little mollified. The memory of her apprehension was still fresh in her mind. Still, she did not trust his motives. ‘Mebbe not,’ she conceded, ‘but that dun’t mean I want you in me bedroom.’

  ‘Oh, Esther.’ His voice was a hoarse whisper and she felt him sliding along the bed towards her.

  ‘That’s quite far enough, Matthew Hilton.’ She snuggled further under the covers, pulling them up tightly under her chin.

  ‘Esther – stop tormenting me. It’s killing me, sleeping – or not sleeping – knowing you’re lying just the other side of the wall . . .’ His voice deepened with desire. ‘Esther – I want you like I’ve never wanted anyone before. You’ve got me all twisted up like no other girl ever has . . .’

  She gave a snort of laughter. ‘Aye, only ’cos I’m the first to fend ya off, me lad.’

  ‘No, no, it ain’t that, truly it ain’t.’

  She felt his breath upon her face and then his lips were on her mouth, but gently, pleadingly. ‘Esther,’ he murmured. ‘I love you, Esther.’

  She twisted her head away. ‘Matthew – I won’t. I’ve told you I won’t – not till I’m married.’

  ‘Then I’ll marry you, Esther Everatt, if that’s what it takes.’

  Twelve

  ALL the people whom Matthew had listed attended the funeral, plus a few more besides. Esther recognized most of them. There were the two neighbouring farmers – also tenants of Squire Marshall – Tom Willoughby and Mr Souter. All the men from the Point were there and the squire, together with his farm bailiff, and, of course, Will Benson.

  All funerals were sad, Esther thought but she felt the pathos of this one. Poor Sam. There were no close relatives, no one to shed a tear into a delicate kerchief for him. Esther and Matthew kept to their places at the rear of the funeral procession, sitting towards the back of the church in the pew Sam had occupied on the few occasions he had attended a service. The flowers from the previous Sunday were withered and dying. No one had cared enough to put fresh ones in their place. The church was cold and musty with the damp.

  The vicar said a few words about Sam, about him being a man of the soil, a man close to Nature, whose life had been ordered by the Seasons of God. Much of what he said was way above Esther’s head, but he seemed to be speaking about Sam in a kindly and respectful manner, skilfully avoiding any mention of the fact that he had attended church only about three times a year or that he lived the life of a grumpy recluse.

  They stood in a little cluster around the grave as the coffin was lowered into the earth, the damp drizzle seeping through their clothes so that as soon as they could without unseemly haste, the mourners moved away from the cold graveyard and back to their conveyances. Esther saw the squire and his bailiff in conversation. They both glanced across at her, then swiftly away again as they saw her watching them. Then Mr Marshall climbed into his carriage.

  Esther unhitched the pony and trap Matthew had borrowed for her from Tom Willoughby and climbed up, slapping the reins so that the pony turned homeward. The rest of the mourners followed Esther back through the town and along the coast road towards the farm.

  The spread she had prepared did Sam Brumby proud, though she was a little doubtful as to whether he would really have approved of all the fuss. The atmosphere amongst those present was a little strained. There was no common ground between them for easy conversation, though Esther was painfully aware that the squire and his other two tenants gravitated towards each other and sat together talking quietly as they ate. Esther saw Mr Marshall wave his hand at one point as if to encompass the land all around the farm, and she was sure he was discussing the future occupancy of his holdings. Perhaps even the two farmers whose land adjoined Brumbys’ Farm were laying claim to it right now.

  Only Will, the carrier, seemed at ease. ‘He were a good friend to me,’ Will said to no one in particular, and he waved his fork towards Esther. ‘An’ he gave this young ’un a good start. That right, ain’t it, lass?’

  Esther nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve learned a lot from Mr Brumby.’ she said and purposely she glanced towards the squire. But Mr Marshall was deep in conversation with the two farmers and appeared not to have heard.

  Replete at last on ham and pork pie, the mourners began to settle themselves to hear the reading of Sam’s will. Mr Thompson, the lawyer, began delivering the legal jargon in a respectful monotone. ‘“This is the last Will and Testament of me Samuel Brumby of Fleethaven Point in the County of Lincoln, Farmer. I give devise and bequeath all my real (if any) and personal estates and effects whatsoever and wheresoever of which I have power to dispose by Will unto Esther Everatt . . .” ’

  At the mention of her name Esther gasped audibly and felt the blood drain from her face. For a moment all eyes in the room swivelled to look at her. But the lawyer did not look up or pause in his reading.

  ‘“. . . absolutely and appoint her sole Executrix hereof. I revoke all former Wills by me at any time heretofore made and declare this only to be and contain my last Will and Testament. In witness whereof I have hereunto set my hand this fourth day of October one thousand nine hundred and eleven.”’ Here Mr Thompson looked up. ‘The will was signed by Mr Brumby and witnessed by myself and –’ his glance rested briefly on the carrier – ‘Mr William Benson, whom you all know.’

  Now Esther felt the lawyer’s gaze come to rest upon her, sitting straight-backed in a chair in one corner.

  ‘You, I presume, are Miss Everatt?’

  What old Sam Brumby had actually said to Mr Thompson, as the lawyer was to tell her later, had been, ‘I want the wench to have it all.’ and it had been left to the lawyer to couch his wishes in legal terms.

  Esther licked her dry lips and her reply came out in a hesitant whisper. ‘Yes – yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, Miss Everatt, I shall be obliged if you will present yourself at my office tomorrow at ten in the morning for the signing of some documents. Of course there are legal procedures to be gone through, but I see no reason why you may not take it that everything that belonged to Sam Brumby –’ he paused for effect – ‘is now yours.’

  Esther could not stop the words from tumbling from her lips. ‘Even the tenancy of the farm – I can stay on at the farm?’

  The lawyer held up his hand as if to fend off her eagerness. ‘That’s quite another matter, Miss Everatt. Presumably –’ the lawyer glanced towards Mr Marshall for confirmation – ‘. . . the tenancy would cease with his death.’

  Esther too looked towards the squire and saw him nod in agreement. ‘That is correct, Mr Thompson. It is written into all my tenancy agreements.’

  ‘Quite so, Mr Marshall.’

  There was a general shuffling in the room as the others present began to lose interest in the finer points of what Sam Brumby’s will meant. Not one of them had the right to have expected anything from Sam Brumby, and yet there was an air of displeasure that the girl who had arrived out of the mist one morning from God alone knew where, had got it all.

  Only on Will Benson’s face was there a smile of satisfaction on Esther’s behalf.

  Esther noticed Matthew staring at her, as if not knowing quite how to accept the news. She was no longer the waif who had arrived from nowhere and with nothing. Now she was in possession of some valuable belongings and, possibly, even the future tenant of Brumbys’ Farm. She saw a slight frown of thoughtfulness appear on Matthew Hilton’s young face, but then, as if with silent agreement the gathering made to leave. Esther forgot about Matthew.

  She followed Mr Marshall out to his carriage and held the reins for him as he climbed up.

  ‘Mr Marshall – sir – about the tenancy of the farm . . .’

  Mr Marshall looked down upon the anxious girl, but his expression was hard and cold. ‘This is hardly the time or the place to discuss matters of business. If you wish to see me, come to the Grange.’ Without a further word he took the reins from Esther’s hand and clicked to the horse to move on.

  Esth
er stared after his retreating back, cursing herself for her mistake. Had she ruined her chances through, in Mr Marshall’s eyes, a lack of proper respect for Sam Brumby’s funeral day?

  The following afternoon – after her morning visit to the lawyer’s office – found Esther trudging the muddy lane towards the Grange. There was a fine drizzle and by the time she had walked the distance between Brumbys’ Farm and the Grange, the cold dampness was seeping through her cape. Her face and hands were wet and her hair straggled in dripping strands down her face and neck.

  ‘Have you an appointment?’ the sour-faced butler asked her loftily. Obviously he had forgotten – or would not acknowledge – the discomfort of his last meeting with Esther Everatt.

  ‘No, but Mr Marshall told me to come and see him.’

  ‘I see.’ The man looked her up and down, sighed audibly and then said with pained resignation, ‘Then you had better come inside. But please, do wipe your – er – boots.’

  She stood just inside the doorway whilst the man walked towards the heavy oak door to the study and knocked. He disappeared inside and closed it behind him.

  It seemed an age before the man reappeared, time enough for the rain to seep from Esther’s boots on to the polished wooden floor and leave tell-tale puddles. Returning, the man sighed again and then said, ‘Would you follow me, please?’

  Mr Marshall was sitting behind the huge desk. ‘Do sit down.’ With a vague wave of his hand the squire indicated a hard wooden chair which had been placed on the visitor’s side of the desk.