A Child of Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Alexander rode until he was exhausted and had rid his head of angry thoughts about his rootless childhood. He imagined what Jeremiah would have to say about such reckless riding. ‘Careful, young man, or you’ll bring on one of those nosebleeds! God gave you a brain for commerce, not a constitution for the saddle.’

  Alexander laughed off such concerns and turned for home. He would grasp life and live it to the full. The day after tomorrow was the ball for King Edward VII ‘s delayed coronation. He would stay for that and then travel on.

  Down in the woods again, the early morning mist still hung damp among the lush leaves as he rode up the back drive. He slowed to a trot, breathing in the sweet clear air, his chest heaving hard from the exertion. Round the bend the first shaft of strong sunlight was breaking through the trees, dazzling the dew-soaked track ahead.

  In the sudden glare, he did not see the girl on the path till the last moment. He saw a flash of pale blue skirt and a startled face as she jumped clear. A basket flew from her hands and raspberries splattered around them, blood-red. Alexander reined in his horse at once, wheeling it round.

  Below him, a young woman stared up in astonishment. Her eyes looked huge and the same startling blue as her dress. Her thick brown hair was tied back but uncovered, her cheeks flushed and mouth open wide as if she would give him a piece of her mind. But she said nothing, just dropped to her knees and attempted to scrape the fallen berries back into her basket.

  Alexander dismounted and went to help.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped, touching her shoulder. She looked up in alarm.

  ‘No, sir, it was me,’ she answered in a strong voice that belied her slight frame.

  ‘Let me help.’

  ‘No, you mustn’t.’

  But he ignored her and began scooping handfuls of raspberries back into the basket. Unable to resist, he popped one into his mouth.

  ‘My favourite fruit. They grow the best raspberries at Ravensworth, don’t you think?’

  She glanced up and eyed him from under thick dark lashes. Was there a hint of merriment in that intent blue gaze? he wondered.

  ‘So me Uncle Peter says. Not tried them meself - not straight from the bush. Me aunt says too much raw fruit can bring on summer fever. They’re grand baked in a pie, mind.’ She suddenly blushed as if she’d said too much.

  Alexander was entranced. ‘You mean to say you’ve never eaten a raspberry straight from the basket?’ She shook her head. He laughed. ‘Well, you must. Go on, try one.’ He picked one out and offered it.

  She regarded him with suspicion and shook her head again.

  ‘I promise you it won’t make you delirious,’ he grinned, pushing it towards her lips.

  She pulled away, then changed her mind and opened her mouth. Alexander placed the berry on the tip of her tongue and watched her eat. She frowned in concentration and licked her lips. She had a generous, full mouth, he noticed.

  Suddenly she smiled and her slim oval face lit up like a cat’s in the sun. Alexander felt a jolt in his guts.

  ‘Aye, taste’s canny,’ she agreed. They exchanged a long look, each assessing the other, then she looked away. She picked up her basket, straightened and smoothed out her skirt.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ She bobbed. ‘Must be off.’

  Alexander stood and watched her dart away up the track. She ran swiftly but with uneven steps like a young colt with a stone in its hoof. He smiled in amusement at finding a pretty country girl who had never tasted a fresh raspberry. Where had she come from and where was she going? As she disappeared into the morning mist, he felt a stab of frustration that she had eluded him without him finding out more. Ridiculous as it seemed, he was disappointed that she was gone.

  Chapter 7

  Kate arrived at Farnacre Hall breathless and heart still hammering. She skidded across the dewy cobbles into the kitchen and almost collided with Cook.

  ‘Watch yourself! You would think His Lordship’s hunting dogs were after you.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Kate panted, dumping down her basket. ‘Berries from me uncle - picked them last night.’

  Cook eyed the battered mound of raspberries. ‘They’re no good for serving up at table. Have to hide them in a crumble.’ She saw Kate’s dashed expression. ‘Still, that’s how the dowager likes them - mushy and easy to eat.’

  Kate smiled in relief and skipped off to the laundry room where Suky joined her. Her friend soon noticed how she worked with only half a mind on the job.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts.’

  Kate stopped humming and looked up from the steaming copper cauldron where she was stirring boiling linen.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said half the morning,’ Suky said in exasperation. ‘Are you not interested in the dance then?’

  ‘What dance?’ Kate asked, forcing herself back to the present. Her mind still reeled from the encounter with the rider.

  ‘The servants’ dance up at the castle! The one I’ve been telling you about.’

  ‘At the castle?’

  ‘Aye! On Friday night - after the nobs have had their ball on Thursday. There’s a dance in the servants’ hall. Always plenty to eat and drink up there. And think of all those footmen!’

  ‘Umm ...’ Kate mused, though it was no footman that preoccupied her. All she could think of was the tall stranger with the tousled flaming hair appearing out of the mist on the sweating horse. She had not heard the faint drumming of hoofs on the soft ground until the black horse had broken from the trees into the small clearing. Startled, she had sprung out of the way just in time, dropping her basket in alarm.

  But far from just riding on with a nod of apology, the man had dismounted at once and come to her assistance. It was then she had seen his face in full - long and lean with a smooth jaw and a generous, sensual mouth. His keen eyes had looked on her with amusement as she scrambled for the fallen fruit. He had laughed at her for not tasting fresh raspberries. How simple and unsophisticated she must have seemed!

  Yet how her heart had pounded as he reached forward and pressed a berry to her lips, his fingers stained red with the juice. She could still taste the tangy sweetness of the fruit on her tongue and it conjured up the man’s bold dark-eyed look. She knew it must be Master Alex, friend of Lady Ravensworih. He had the same auburn glint in his unruly hair and deep amused tone in his voice that she had witnessed in the hothouse.

  ‘What you staring at?’ Suky demanded. ‘You’re acting all strange this morning. You got a secret or some’at?’

  Kate tried to hide a smile. ‘No, course not.’ No use confiding in Suky; she would think it too fanciful to be true. What gentleman would stop his horse to help a serving girl and feed her raspberries? Such things only happened in fairy tales. She hugged the knowledge to herself. Besides, he would have forgotten her already and she was never likely to chance upon him again in such a way. But that didn’t stop her hoping for a glimpse of him up at the castle.

  ‘Can we gan to the dance?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Aye, that’s what I’ve been telling you! Us lasses from the hall are invited an’ all. So do you want to come?’

  Kate smiled. ‘Aye, course I do.’

  ***

  Dear Papa, Alexander wrote to Jeremiah.

  I set sail on Saturday for Gothenburg. At Lady Ravensworth’s insistence I must stay for the carnival ball on Thursday evening. She has set herself the task of finding me a wife among the genteel women of the county. As this is a cause so dear to your heart, I see it as my duty to stay.

  Rest assured, your business is in good hands. I have met with numerous mine managers over the past month and everything is in hand to expand our commercial affairs in Scandinavia and the Baltic. I will write to you from Sweden.

  Your obedient son.


  Alexander smiled as he signed it. No need to tell his father that he had done all his visits on horseback or that he had spent far more time sketching the pit villagers than talking to their bosses. After the ball he would have one more day of riding up on the moor before the long sea journey. His father would only fret if he knew, for he stubbornly believed that riding brought on bouts of nose-bleeding. But Alexander had not had one of his violent, debilitating bleeds in over six months and felt vigorously healthy.

  In defiance, he rode down to the village of Lamesley to post the letter before returning to the castle to prepare for the ball. On the way there and back he looked out for any sign of the young woman with the basket of berries who had almost fallen under his hoofs the day before.

  He wondered if she was the same girl he had seen in the hothouse several weeks earlier, the laughing face behind the glass who had inspired a series of pencil drawings. A straw hat, a stockinged ankle, the edge of a smile. He was sure it must be her. She was some relation of the gardener Peter and had been hurrying from the direction of the gardeners’ cottages that misty morning.

  Alexander was intrigued by her and frustrated not to see her on his ride. His interest in her was that of an artist. He wanted to gaze again on her smooth oval face with the dark arching eyebrows and discover the blue of her eyes. Were they cobalt or Prussian blue? But all he could do was wonder, for there was no sign of her outside the row of cottages. It was as if he had imagined her: a wood sprite conjured up out of the mist, only to vanish as soon as he put out his hand to touch her.

  The carnival ball was a spectacular affair. The lords and ladies of the county came in gleaming black carriages up the long drive, lit by flaming torches. One wealthy shipowner caused a stir by arriving noisily in an open-topped autocar and hooting at the peacocks. The children on the estate crept to the edges of the trees to gaze at such a wonder.

  The guests came sumptuously dressed as Tudor kings and medieval queens, eighteenth-century nobles and eastern princes. Alexander borrowed a costume from his cousin and went as an Arabian knight in a golden turban and glittering cloak. The dining hall was a shimmer of polished mahogany laden with silver, crystal and patterned china. The long tables were heaped with displays of exotic fruit and towering sculptures of sugar and multicoloured jellies.

  Alexander was annoyed to find himself seated far away from Lady Ravensworth, and glanced with envy at the powerful local coal and shipping magnates who were her most favoured guests. Yet he supposed he was lucky to be here at all. If it were not for the kindness of His Lordship and the indulgence of his younger wife he would not even be staying at the castle, let alone be invited to this glittering ball. He and his stepfather were ‘trade’ and would never fully be able to cross the social chasm between their kind and the aristocratic Liddells, however much Alexander felt he belonged.

  So he turned his charm to his female partners at table. One was the wife of a freeman of Newcastle, the other the daughter of a County Durham squire who had farms up on the fells around the lead mines of the west. Polly seemed shy and overawed by the occasion, and Alexander found himself enjoying taking her under his wing, pointing out the various guests he knew and telling her about Ravensworth as if he were one of the family.

  ‘It must have been wonderful to spend all your summer holidays here,’ she gasped.

  He smiled and shrugged. ‘Well, not every summer. Sometimes we went south - stayed with other relations.’

  ‘You’re so well-travelled,’ she said admiringly. ‘The furthest I ever get is to shop in Darlington or Durham. I’d love to go abroad - Paris or somewhere - but Mama won’t go on trains and Papa hates to leave the farm for a minute - except to go riding.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He didn’t want to stay here, but Mama refused to travel back tonight.’

  She had quite a striking face under the weight of a Marie Antoinette wig, Alexander thought. Open and handsome, rather than pretty, with a sweet trusting smile.

  ‘And do you like to ride, Polly?’

  ‘Oh, I love it!’

  ‘Then we shall ride out tomorrow before breakfast and I’ll show you all there is to see around Ravensworth.’

  Polly flushed with delight and Alexander turned to pay some attention to the freeman’s wife. Later, full of the earl’s best claret and half a bottle of port, Alexander threw himself into the dancing in the ballroom. He danced with Polly and several other young women, but managed to book Lady Ravensworth for a waltz late into the evening.

  ‘You’ve made a conquest, I see,’ she teased him.

  ‘You know I’m devoted only to you, Cousin Emma,’ he grinned, sweeping her around the crowded floor.

  She laughed. ‘Polly De Winton hasn’t taken her eyes off you all evening. It’s no surprise - you look quite dashing and mysterious in these robes.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve noticed me.’

  ‘Dear Alex, how could I not? But you must be attentive to young Polly. Her father makes a good living from the dues from lead mining. She’s his only heir - and old De Winton keeps a fine stable, so I hear.’

  Alexander laughed. ‘You are a more incorrigible matchmaker than my father.’

  ‘The best,’ Emma smiled as the dance ended. ‘Now go and work your Pringle charm.’

  Alexander felt light-headed from the dance and the attention of his charismatic hostess. Impulsively, he grabbed Polly by the hand and pulled her from the ballroom.

  ‘Fresh air is what we need,’ he declared, and led her out onto the cool terrace.

  He slipped her arm through his and felt her shiver either from the chill air or excitement. He knew she found him attractive and it fed his desire to be wanted, to be special and loved. It was like a shot of brandy going straight to his head. This was the moment he enjoyed most, the quickening of interest in someone else that stirred his own.

  He led her down the stone path away from the terrace and towards the hothouses, telling her she must try the peaches. Polly had never tasted fresh peaches before, only tinned. In the warmth of the darkened glasshouse they shared the fruit, the blaze of lights from the castle spilling down the terraces behind them.

  Her angular features were softened in the pale light, her eyes large as they gazed back at him.

  ‘We shouldn’t miss the fireworks,’ she said, a little unsure.

  ‘No,’ Alexander agreed. Then quite without thought, he stooped down and kissed her firmly on the lips. She tasted sweet and sticky and smelt pleasantly of musk. He imagined her hair under the wig to be blonde, long tresses that would cascade about her strong shoulders once released. He slipped an arm around her waist.

  She stepped away, her fingers flying to her mouth.

  ‘We shouldn’t be here - not on our own,’ she said.

  He saw her alarm and was quick to apologise. ‘Sorry, Polly. I’ve drunk too much.’

  ‘I want to go back,’ she said, avoiding his look.

  ‘Of course.’ He had misread the situation again. For an instant he had imagined himself in love. No one else seemed as susceptible as he. He felt foolish.

  They retraced their steps in silence back into the blaze of light. Once back among the dancers, Polly brightened and relaxed. But Alexander felt suddenly tired and jaded by drink and romantic disappointment. He excused himself and went off to the smoking room. Hours later he woke in one of the leather chairs, the fire gone out. Stiff and cold he emerged into the corridor, empty save for the glimpse of a maid carrying a bucket of coal up the far stairs.

  Early morning light shone through the leaded panes of the gallery. Below they were clearing up the debris of discarded drinks and late night suppers. He had slept through the fireworks and the rest of the ball. Alexander crept up to his bedroom and lay down, his head thumping from the previous night’s drinking. But he could not sleep. Instead he stripped off his fancy dress, plunged his face int
o cold water in the china basin on the washstand and splashed his upper body.

  He remembered kissing Polly in the hothouse, and groaned. He hoped she hadn’t complained to the bullish-faced De Winton. At least tomorrow he would be gone and no more of an embarrassment to his cousins. Suddenly he yearned to be at sea, with the salt wind in his face and the rocky shore of Sweden on the horizon.

  Alexander dressed in riding clothes and strode out to the stables. He would have his final canter out across the moor. To his astonishment, Polly was there, wearing a green riding habit and black hard hat.

  ‘You promised to show me the estate,’ she blushed. Her features were sharp in the daylight. He had been wrong about her hair; it was brown under the hat. But her eyes shone with amusement and her look was challenging. His interest quickened.

  ‘Of course,’ he smiled and nodded. ‘I hoped you would be here.’

  ‘Liar,’ she murmured.

  He gave her a startled look.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, leading her horse over the cobbles. ‘Don’t want to miss breakfast in an hour.’

  Alexander followed, entranced. He had misjudged Polly. There was no sign of the retiring wallflower he had thought to so easily impress the night before. She was obviously far more at ease among horses than high society. They set off at a brisk trot.

  ***

  Aunt Lizzie helped Kate make ready for the evening, combing out her hair and fixing it up with combs and pins. Lizzie and Peter could not be persuaded to go, her aunt unable to walk the distance and her uncle happier to smoke a pipe at his front door than be made to dance.

  ‘You’ve lovely skin, our Kate,’ Lizzie marvelled, stroking the softness of her cheek. ‘You’ve your da’s fair face.’

  Kate felt a stab of affection for her aunt for mentioning her long-dead father. Her own mother never talked of him for fear of riling John McMullen’s jealousy. It was as if William Fawcett had never been. But now, by insisting on taking his name, Kate had reinvented herself and thrown off the yoke of being branded one of those unruly, boastful McMullens who fought with their neighbours and had been evicted more times than she could remember.