The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  For all her bluntness, even Ma Harris could not bring herself to put it into words.

  Esther stood up. ‘On that score, I happen to agree with you. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Ya mean . . .’ For a moment there was a hint of relenting in Ma’s expression. ‘You mean you’re going to end it?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t.’

  Ma Harris sucked in air through her sunken mouth. ‘Esther – you dun’t mean you – you’ll take him into yar bed? Not Matthew’s bed!’

  Esther faced her brazenly, then yielded. She didn’t care what any of them said about her, but she couldn’t bear them to think ill of Jonathan. She shook her head. ‘Jonathan would refuse anyway. Whatever you think of me, you shouldn’t blame him, he’s a gentleman.’

  Ma shook her head grimly. ‘I dun’t blame him. Ya can’t blame a man. I blame you.’ With that she turned and went out of Esther’s pantry and out her house. Esther followed her to the back door. Half-way across the yard, Ma turned and shouted back, ‘I’ll be sending Enid for the milk and eggs in future, Esther Hilton.’

  She was surprised just how the older woman’s attitude hurt her. She had thought herself tough and hard and totally resilient to the opinions others had of her. But she had always liked Ma Harris, had valued her friendship and, at times, her help. Now Ma had literally turned her back on her.

  Determinedly, Esther shook herself. I’ll survive, she told herself. Of course she would – but still, it hurt.

  *

  Esther was sure Jonathan would feel obliged to leave, but still he stayed. Now, however, he came into the farmhouse. Some nights they just lay quietly together in each other’s arms. Too tired by the day’s work to make love, yet wanting to be together, just close to each other.

  As the summer grew older, workers from the neighbouring farms began to arrive to help with Esther’s corn harvest. She knew they whispered about her and Jonathan, for she saw them in little huddles, nodding towards her. Sometimes a guffaw of laughter would echo across the field. Sometimes she would catch the fleeting disapproval in their eyes, especially amongst the women. There were many more women helpers now on the farms than ever before, for their menfolk were gone. There were a lot of new faces too, but the one familiar face she wanted to see did not come. This year there was no Ma Harris rounding up her brood and setting them to work.

  It was obvious that all these workers had heard about Esther Hilton and the soldier. Her chin would go a little higher, and deliberately, she would move towards Jonathan. She would touch his arm and look up into his face then glance towards the whisperers coquettishly, defying their disapproval.

  ‘Esther, you shouldn’t . . .’ he would murmur, but she would not listen.

  ‘I dun’t care,’ she would tell him, her eyes flashing rebelliously. ‘I’ll give ’em something to tittle-tattle about.’

  Towards Jonathan, however, the workers’ manner was deferential. The men – the few who by reason of age or ill health were left – would gather round him, watching him and quietly helping him. It was like a silent accolade on their part for his suffering, for his bravery. Perhaps it was also a wordless apology for the fact that they were still here, whole and almost untouched by the war.

  Doggedly Jonathan kept pace with them and Esther watched with concern as the sweat poured down his face and his shirt clung damply to him. But she knew he would hate her to fuss over him, particularly in front of everyone.

  She was returning from the farmhouse to the field with cool drinks for the workers when Kate came running towards her across the stubble. ‘Mam, Mam! He’s bleedin’. Come quick!’

  Esther glanced to where the younger children were playing at the edge of the field. She squinted against the bright sunlight. ‘Who? I dun’t see—’

  ‘Not them – him!’ Kate was pointing, not in the direction of her playmates, but towards the menfolk further down the field.

  They had stopped work and were gathered around one of their number lying on the ground.

  Jonathan! She couldn’t see Jonathan.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Esther breathed and began to run.

  Twenty-eight

  ‘WHAT is it? What’s happened?’

  Esther pushed her way through the group. Then she dropped to her knees beside Jonathan. He was sitting on the ground, bending forward, holding his injured shoulder.

  ‘Let me see . . .’ she began.

  ‘No! It’s just the wound – opened up. Don’t fuss, Esther.’

  She gasped at his sharpness and sat back on her heels, staring at him.

  Immediately, he was contrite. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured softly, and as he raised his head, she saw his face was grey with pain and streaked with sweat.

  In her anxiety for him, she had been oblivious to the fact that the gathering were standing silent and watchful, listening for every word that passed between them. Yet even in his pain, Jonathan had not forgotten.

  She stood up. Stiffly, she said, ‘You’d better come to the farmhouse.’ Then she turned to Ben Harris. ‘Perhaps two of you would help him?’ Then she marched away across the field towards the farm without looking back.

  But her eyes were brimming with unshed tears.

  When they were alone in her kitchen Esther bathed and dressed the jagged line of the wound which had opened up a little at what had been its deepest point. ‘Why didn’t ya tell me it was as bad as this? Ya shouldn’t be doing anything, let alone heavy farm work.’

  I’m not going to be beaten by a little scratch.’

  ‘Please, Jonathan . . .’ she began and took his hands in hers. She saw him wince and slowly she turned them over. The edges of his forefingers were covered with blisters.

  ‘What on earth . . . ?’ she gasped.

  ‘It’s tying the sheaves.’ He grinned ruefully. She put her arms around him and he nestled his head against her breast.

  Kate’s running feet sounded on the yard and Esther moved away from Jonathan as the child appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were wide with alarm. ‘Danny ses you was hurt. Are you?’

  Jonathan smiled at her and his face softened. ‘A little – it’s nothing.

  ‘Nothing, indeed!’ Esther muttered.

  Kate moved towards him and as he held out his good arm to her, she climbed on to his knee.

  ‘You mustn’t do any more work on the farm, you—’ Esther began.

  ‘Oh, yes, I will!’ His mouth was a firm, determined line. Above the child’s head they glared at each other.

  ‘Oh, you’re so stubborn. You’re just like . . .’ Esther bit back the words. She had been going to say ‘just like Matthew’ but instead she finished lamely, ‘You’re all the same, you men!’

  She was aware of Kate’s glance shifting from one to the other. ‘If you can’t help Mam on the farm, mester,’ the child said, beaming up at him with a beatific smile, ‘then you can take me shrimpin’ tomorrow.’

  The look of defeat on Jonathan’s face was so comical that Esther turned away and smothered her laughter with her apron. Then she heard his deep chuckle as he ruffled Kate’s curls. ‘All right, you win. I can’t beat the two of you!’

  But on the third day, Jonathan was back in the fields doggedly keeping pace with the other workers.

  Despite his grief at the loss of his elder son, Squire Marshall was determined that life on his estate should go on as near to normal as possible.

  ‘We shall hold the Harvest Supper as usual,’ he told each of his tenants in turn. ‘I expect you all to come and bring whatever friends you like.’ He paused a moment reflectively and added, haltingly, ‘There’ll be too many empty places.’

  Visiting Brumbys’ Farm, he said to Esther, ‘And this is the young man I’ve heard about who’s visiting poor Mrs Harris.’ He held out his hand to Jonathan and gripped it warmly. ‘Did – did you know my boy?’

  His voice deep with regret, Jonathan replied, ‘Not personally, sir, but by sight, yes.’

  ‘Well, my boy, I trust our good air is retu
rning you to full health. I expect you’ll – er – be going back soon, will you?’

  Jonathan’s normally steady gaze flickered away for a moment. He took a deep breath and then looked back to meet the squire’s gaze squarely. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said softly, but nonetheless firmly, ‘I will be going back.’

  Esther, hearing the exchange, felt as if the breath had been knocked from her body. Her whole world seemed to crumble and even in the sunlight she shivered. Mechanically, she stretched a smile on to her mouth when the squire wished her good day. She stood staring after him as he mounted his horse and rode out of the farmyard gate.

  When he was out of sight, Jonathan put his arm about her and led her into the barn. ‘I know what you’re thinking – feeling,’ he said gently. ‘But you’ve known all along that I must leave eventually. I’m well now – that’s obvious to anyone who sees me working in the fields. I shouldn’t be here. Every day I’m on borrowed time.’

  She looked up into his face. ‘But your wound isn’t healed properly. You know it isn’t.’

  ‘It’s – well enough that I ought to be going back. If I don’t report back very soon, they’ll come looking for me.’

  ‘You could hide here. No one from the army knows where you are, do they?’ She flung her arms about him crying, ‘Don’t go. Stay with me. Please!’

  He held her close. ‘A little longer, my love, just a little while longer.’ More than that he would not promise.

  Later she asked, ‘You’ll come to the Harvest Supper with me?’

  ‘I’ll go to the supper – but not with you.’

  ‘Whyever not?’

  ‘Esther, we’d be flaunting our – our affair in front of all your neighbours. We’d only be asking for more trouble. These people care for Matthew. You must go to the squire’s supper as the wife of a tenant farmer, the wife of a man who is a soldier at the front doing his duty for his country – as Matthew’s wife.’ Despite his reasoned argument, his voice wavered a little on the final words, but Esther was too angry to notice.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ she began hotly. ‘Matthew only went because he got drunk and volunteered when Martha Willoughby called him a coward.’

  ‘For whatever reason, he’s there – in the thick of it. I’ll go with the Harrises. That is, if they’ll have me.’

  For once Esther could not shake his quiet resolve.

  Esther dressed with care on the evening of the Harvest Supper. She was as nervous as a girl on her first outing with a young man.

  She had to take Kate along, for on this night there was no one who wanted to miss the supper to stay at home with Esther’s daughter.

  ‘Will Enid be there? And the others?’ Kate chattered incessantly, catching some of Esther’s excitement.

  ‘I expect so. Do hold still, child, whilst I tie this ribbon in your hair. Such thick curls you’ve got, just like mine.’

  ‘Will Danny be there?’

  Esther’s fingers were stilled a moment. Then she brushed Kate’s hair vigorously.

  ‘Ouch, you’re pulling.’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ Esther said, answering her daughter’s question but unable to keep the sharpness from her tone. ‘But I’ll be there tonight to make sure he doesn’t pull your hair again.’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t pull my hair any more.’ Kate said airily.

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

  ‘No – now he tries to kiss me.’

  ‘What! For heaven’s sake, child, you’re only four! You shouldn’t be kissing little boys . . .’ Esther pursed her lips and muttered, ‘He’s his father’s son, all right, and no mistake.’

  ‘What did you say, Mamma?’

  ‘Nothing for you, missy. You stay away from Danny Eland, d’you hear me?’

  ‘He’s my friend. I like Danny.’ The small mouth quivered and tears trembled, but Esther hardened her heart.

  ‘You’ll do as I say, Kate.’

  The merriment was in full swing when they arrived at the huge barn at the Grange. At least on the surface it appeared to be, but after a few moments there, Esther could feel that the atmosphere of gaiety was forced. Although everyone was doing their best to put on a show of enjoying themselves, there were so many faces missing now, so many who would never be coming back. Every day the casualty lists grew longer and news of fearsome battles, won and lost, dominated the newspapers.

  She scanned the bobbing heads for sight of him and saw him deep in solemn conversation with the squire. She felt Kate’s hand tug itself from her hold.

  ‘Kate, you . . .’

  The child was gone, darting between the dancers to the stack at the end of the barn where several children were playing, sliding down and tumbling each other. At least, thought Esther wryly, I can’t see Danny Eland amongst them. Then forgetting the children, her eyes again sought Jonathan.

  Drawn towards him, she threaded her way through the throng, coming to stand a little way off, just watching him. Her gaze roamed over him, drinking in every feature. The flop of golden hair, the smooth skin tanned to a healthy bronze now by all his outdoor work. Reluctantly, she had to admit that he looked the picture of health – not a wounded soldier on sick leave. The realization terrified her.

  As if feeling her close by, he lifted his eyes and met her gaze. She saw the fire burn in his eyes, saw the hunger in them as he took in her appearance. He had never seen her in her best dress, for he never accompanied her to church and that was the only time she ever wore it other than for the Harvest Supper. Suddenly, another memory pushed its way unbidden into her mind. She had worn this dress on that last Bank Holiday – when Matthew had taken her on the pier. So long ago, it seemed now. Another world, another life away.

  Squire Marshall, following Jonathan’s gaze, greeted her. ‘My dear Mrs Hilton.’ He held out his arm to her as if to draw her closer, to include her in their conversation. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come. Of course you two know each other. I was forgetting – I met you at Brumbys’ Farm the other day, didn’t I?’

  Esther looked sharply at the squire but the remark had been made so innocently and without guile. So, she thought, the gossip hasn’t reached the squire’s ears, or at least if it has he’s choosing to ignore it. She glanced at Jonathan and that special look of a secret shared passed between them.

  She held her hands clenched at her sides, willing herself to resist the urge to go up to him, to put her hands against his chest and reach up and touch his lips with her own. Instead she said, ‘How is Mrs Marshall, Squire?’

  The older man’s face seemed to age before her. ‘Ah, my dear, she’s frail and weak, I fear. She’s never recovered from our great loss, you know.’

  Esther’s green eyes filled with genuine sympathy. ‘I am sorry, Squire,’ she said softly.

  ‘Thank you, my dear, thank you.’ He smiled, making a great effort to play out his self-appointed role as host of the party alone. ‘Ah, there’s Tom Willoughby. Willoughby, over here a moment.’

  Tom Willoughby’s huge bulk came towards them.

  ‘Squire,’ he greeted his landlord cordially but with due deference. ‘Hello, Esther lass. Any news from Matthew, then?’

  Esther drew breath sharply and avoided looking at Jonathan. ‘No – no, I’m afraid I haven’t heard from him – in ages.’ She had told no one about the last postcard from Matthew, but even that had been several weeks ago now, so her answer was not exactly a lie. Yet Esther, always truthful, felt it to be. Her heart thudded a little faster, and she was sure her cheeks grew pink.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, lass, real sorry,’ Tom was saying.

  There was a moment’s awkward silence between them, then Tom Willoughby and the squire both began to speak at the same moment.

  ‘I wanted—’

  ‘How—?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, after you . . .’

  ‘No, no, Willoughby, it was nothing really, just idle conversation. If you’ll excuse me I’ll get round to some of the other guests.’

  He nodd
ed and smiled at the three of them and as he moved away, Esther said, ‘What were you going to say, Tom?’

  ‘I was about to say that I wanted a word with you, Esther. I’ve a bit of bad news. I don’t know if you’ll be able to borrow the threshing tackle the squire lends us. It’s at my place now, but I’m having the devil’s own job wi’ the blessed traction engine! The man we usually get when it plays up has volunteered and I don’t know of anyone else who knows about engines.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Esther groaned. ‘With so many hands short, I was relying on that.’

  ‘Er, perhaps I might be able to help,’ Jonathan’s deep voice put in quietly. ‘What sort is it?’

  Tom Willoughby told him. A smile spread across Jonathan’s face. ‘I’ll take a look for you, Mr Willoughby, if you’d like me to?’

  ‘Well, if you think you can do owt, young feller, I’d be chuffed. Er, ’ow do you know about steam engines, then?’

  ‘Made in Lincoln, wasn’t it?’

  Tom Willoughby nodded.

  ‘That’s where I worked before I joined up. I maybe even worked on it, Mr Willoughby.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ exclaimed Tom Willoughby with such a comical look on his face that both Esther and Jonathan burst out laughing.

  It was the only unfeigned laughter heard all evening and then it was heard by many only with disapproval.

  Later the following day, Esther went to Rookery Farm to find Jonathan up to his elbows in grease and oil, clambering all over Tom Willoughby’s huge traction engine.

  She had not seen him all day. Frustrated and feeling neglected, she had guessed that was where he would be. She didn’t stop to think of the consequences that parading her friendship with Jonathan before Martha Willoughby and her spiteful sister could bring.